


Love Story

by DratTheRat



Category: Dark Tower - Stephen King
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Bad Things Happening to Poor Cuthbert, Betrayal, Bittersweet, Canonical Character Death, Coercion, Coming of Age, Consensual Sex, Dark, Drama, Dubious Consent, Espionage, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fatalism, Friendship, Gilead - Freeform, Graphic Sexual Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Possibly AU, Prostitution, Psychic Abilities, Rape of a Minor, Sacrifice, Sad, Sadism, Telepathy, Underage Sex, Voyeurism, War, impending doom, some war violence, sort of canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-05-26 00:24:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 58,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14988752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DratTheRat/pseuds/DratTheRat
Summary: We all know how this ends - so does Alain.  On one level of the tower, this might be the part in the middle.  All the warnings!





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Now complete!! This work is much longer and darker (especially the sexual content!) than my other stories. Please heed the warnings and the tags.

“Father, what is fucking?”

Alain is ten years old, and already he has waited years to ask this question. He’s looked for the word in his father’s brain before without him noticing and always been disturbed by what he found associated with it. Disturbed and confused: what he sees in his father’s mind does not make sense within the context of his dream.

Christopher Johns nearly chokes on his toast, but he composes himself quickly and smiles indulgently across the breakfast table at his son. “That’s a grown-up word, Alain. Where did you hear it?”

“In my dream.”

Alain’s father frowns. “Tell me.”

“My dream is about two men,” Alain begins.

His father’s frown deepens. He interrupts: “And are you one of them?”

“No. I’m sure I’m not. Two dark haired men. They’re sitting very close together . . .”

Christopher Johns opens his mouth to interrupt again, then sighs and gestures for Alain to continue.

“They’re sitting very close together so their sides and arms are touching. They don’t mind that they are touching. I think they are good friends.” Now it is Alain’s turn to frown. He does not have any good friends. Cuthbert Allgood can be kind enough, but he is Roland Deschain’s bosom companion, and there is no room for anybody else between them. He wishes Cuthbert were his friend.

“What are they doing?” Alain’s father asks.

“Resting, maybe, or hiding from something bad. There is a lot of blood. Both of them are hurt, and one is hurt badly. One of his eyes is all shot out, and there’s blood all over his face, and I think he’s hurt some other places, too, but he’s smiling, maybe even laughing. The other man is much more serious even though he isn’t hurt so badly, but he smiles for a second, too. That’s why I think they’re friends.”

“Go on.” Alain’s father knows there must be more because Alain hasn’t mentioned fucking yet.

“When the serious man smiles, he says, ‘Then blow that fucking horn!’”

“And then?”

“And then I wake up.”

“You’ve had this dream before.”

Alain nods. He’s had this dream for as long as he can remember.

Christopher Johns nods back and takes a long drink of coffee. “Well, son, I told you ‘fucking’ is a grown-up word. It’s something grown-ups do when they want to make a baby, or give each other pleasure. But it’s not a nice word for it.”

The visions Alain pulled from his father’s head before reorder themselves into something suddenly less disturbing, and Alain feels a funny feeling he has felt before in his stomach and his groin. He’s not going to ask about that. Instead, he says, “What’s the nice word?”

“Making love, I suppose.”

“That’s very different.”

“Yes,” his father says, “It has to do with what you want to describe. ‘Making love’ is about nice feelings and creation, and ‘fucking’ describes the base act. It makes it sound not nice, even though it can be a nice thing. And because it’s not a nice word, sometimes grown-ups use it when they are upset.”

“So it’s a swear.”

“That’s right.”

“The serious man is swearing because they’re in a bad situation,” Alain reasons, “And the other man is laughing because they’re going to die.”

Christopher Johns frowns again. For a moment, Alain thinks he’s going to chastise him for leaping to conclusions, but Alain has already told him about the blood and the shot out eye, and his father understands that sometimes Alain Knows things about his dreams that don’t come through when he describes them.

“Who would laugh because they’re going to die?” his father asks at last.

Christopher Johns probably thinks he has found a roundabout way to push his son to reexamine his dream, but the question only makes Alain more certain he is right. Because now, suddenly, he understands who these men are. His appetite vanishes.


	2. Thirteen, in three parts

1

Roland Deschain is not the fastest boy born to the gun - yet - but he grows faster every day, and his shots are always accurate. He is an excellent falconer. He is slow to soak up knowledge, but he reads easily and studies hard to learn new languages and codes. Gradually, he begins to understand and scrutinize tactics and military theory with his cold, analytical mind. More than anything, he is a born leader: born to lead them to their deaths. Well, maybe not all of them; Alain can’t be absolutely sure. He only Knows for certain about Cuthbert.

Cuthbert Allgood is fast and accurate, too, but not as fast or accurate as Roland or even quiet Jamie. His falconry is mediocre; his kind heart seems to lack the will to discipline the bird. In their other lessons, though, he is one of the best. He excels at languages and codes, aided as he is by a sharp memory, a love of riddles, and a naturally easy line of talk. He is cunning, and he matches or surpasses Roland in tactics and theory, too, but receives little praise for his mastery. Un-squeamish, even bloodthirsty at times, he is also incongruously sweet and kind. What good is a clever mind if it is not paired with a hard heart? 

Alain Johns excels at nothing. At thirteen, he is fast enough and accurate enough and does at least as well at falconry as Cuthbert. He can read and write and understand tactics well enough, again, but he struggles mightily with any language other than the low speech and High Speech, and he is hopeless at codes and ciphers, even with Cuthbert helping him. He is heavier and pudgier, too, than the other boys his age. Roland’s father, Dinh of Gilead, refers to him as“Clodfoot” - always in his mind, occasionally to his face.

Alain’s father tells him not to worry: “You will make a fine gunslinger, son, but your true talents lie elsewhere. You may be Gilead’s greatest asset someday.”

Alain understands that “fine” here means “acceptable,” not “exceptional.” He doesn’t know whether to be touched or angry with his father for trying to raise his spirits by using such an ambiguous word. He also understands that his “true talents” mean the touch, which Alain hates. The touch is always there, and when it isn’t creeping in unwelcome and filling his dreams or waking mind with indecipherable, distracting visions of blood and fire it is feeding him other people’s emotions, making it impossible for him to believe a well intentioned lie. Alain decides on angry after all and calls his father out.

“The thing’s a curse, and you know it!” he snarls petulantly then deflates. “I would rather be a weapon in the ordinary way.”

Christopher Johns places a broad hand on his son’s too soft shoulder. “I know, Alain,” he admits. Then he tries again to comfort him with something even worse: “I happen to know that Steven Deschain holds you in higher regard than Robert Allgood’s boy. ‘That boy’s got nothing for him but his looks,’” he imitates the harsh, judgmental voice of his dihn, “‘And those too pretty to suit a proper gunslinger. I’d say we ought to marry him off to some old crone to strengthen a political alliance, but then she’d have to live with him and throw the treaty in our face.’” He laughs and squeezes Alain’s shoulder.

Alain stares at the floor. He does not dare tell his father that thirteen year old Cuthbert Allgood is the most beautiful boy that he has ever seen or that the idea of him sent away to be the gilly husband of a powerful old woman (he remembers their conversation about “fucking”) makes him sick, even as a joke. 

“I don’t think that’s very fair,” he says to the floor. Then, unwilling to let his father see how upset he really his, he tries to imagine what ever-smiling Cuthbert would say if he heard this rumor (he wonders if he has) and musters a smile of his own. “Besides,” he looks up, “Roland would be devastated.” 

He smiles, but it is not a joke. More than once, Alain’s touch has shown him Roland’s cold, unsociable mind. Already, consciously or not, he relies on Cuthbert to fill the gaps in his own skillset - he has little call to use him yet for puzzles, languages, or tactical advice, but he understands that he is clever and leans more heavily than he knows upon the warmth and kindness of his loving heart. No wonder Sai Deschain wishes he were gone. Alain hopes he never finds a way to pry him out of Roland’s life. Alain would be devastated, too.

2

A few weeks later, Vannay teaches them to hypnotize each other with a revolver shell or coin, and Alain is finally the best. At first, he worries he will drop the object and fail to make it play across his knuckles with the grace of his teacher (or Roland or Cuthbert, whose fingers are longer and quicker than Alain’s). But this action is delicately different from aiming and firing a gun, and Alain picks it up right away. Of course, everybody else can do it, too. It surprises Alain how easily Roland - socially awkward in so many ways - soothes and takes control of Alain’s mind, but the thrill of putting him under in return is something Alain has never known. Roland’s hard mind fights, but, with the touch as his ally, he is no match for Alain. Soon, Alain guesses with sudden confidence, Roland will not be able to hypnotize him without his cooperation. Nor, perhaps, will Vannay himself. 

Cuthbert does not resist at all. At the end of the lesson, Alain gets his first taste of Vannay’s praise and Cuthbert gets a more familiar does of his reproach.

“Your desire to aid your friends makes you weak,” their teacher growls, “Your submission is unseemly.”

Cuthbert arches one fine, dark brow in irritation, curiosity, or both. “Why should I resist? You said this lesson was about learning the technique. Why should I sabotage my friends? Will some of us, at least, not be ka-tet? What unwilling person is going to stare at what we tell them to?”

Perhaps he has more questions, but his brazen catechism ends when Vannay strikes out at the delicate looking hands Cuthbert had been resting on his desk with a harsh flick of his long switch. Cuthbert’s hands disappear, and the switch cracks violently across his empty desk. Vannay is quick, but he is not a gunslinger, and Alain Knows Cuthbert will be. After all, he’s seen him at, presumably, his end. The thought makes Alain grimace, and his frown deepens in sympathy when Vannay snaps the switch across Cuthbert’s cheek, instead, leaving a bloody gash above his jaw. He does not answer any of his questions. Cuthbert is a joker and back-talker, always challenging authority. It does not help his reputation.

When Vannay has gone, Cuthbert asks Roland to go with him into town, but Roland claims that he must meet his father. “He is not wrong, you know,” he adds.

Cuthbert looks down at his unmarred hands and shrugs. 

“Bert,” Roland grasps his shoulder, and Cuthbert’s large, dark eyes swing up to meet his friend’s intense, icy blue gaze. “You must try. It isn’t safe. You have to try for me.”

Devastated, Alain thinks.

Cuthbert smiles sweetly and takes hold of Roland’s hand where it rests upon his shoulder. “Do not worry, Roland. Don’t worry about what Vannay says. He doesn’t like me much, but I’m too good for them to send me West just yet.” His sweet smile morphs into a smirk.

Roland shakes his head and opens his mouth to object. 

Cuthbert squeezes his hand tighter. “Don’t worry about me,” he says again, “I’ll practice with Alain.”

Roland nods, turns on his heels, and goes. 

When he is gone, Cuthbert turns to Alain, head cocked. “Alright?” 

Alain nods. More than once, kind hearted Cuthbert has helped him study languages and codes, but Alain has never been good enough at anything before to offer to return the favor. “Now?” he asks. Cuthbert has never asked him to spend time with him outside of lessons, either.

Cuthbert nods, but his smile is gone, and his dark eyes are grim. “Let’s get it over with. East Tower Lawn.” 

Alain can tell he is not lying or joking - he is dreading this practice, which he had so readily promised Roland he would undertake. Making a great effort not to push into his mind in case the part of it he’s dreading is his company, he follows this oddly somber Cuthbert out of Vannay’s library, down the spiral staircase, and across the courtyard to the East Tower where he skirts carefully around the building, close to the bricks, until they are on the far side of the tower, perched precariously on a flat, grassy space only a few feet wide at the top of the castle motte. Alain stares down the steep hill to the river Gyl and the Bergher Forest beyond - the only wildland left inside the city walls. They are extremely unlikely to be seen.

“This is a lawn?” Alain asks, hoping Cuthbert will smile.

He gets his wish, but the smile is small. “East Tower Lawn,” Cuthbert repeats. His eyes sparkle, and Alain understands he is being let in on one of Cuthbert and Roland’s secrets. He doesn’t have long to revel in the realization, though, because Cuthbert’s smile disappears. He sits suddenly, cross legged, and says again, “Let’s get this over with. Then we can enjoy the view.”

“Alright,” Alain agrees and sits opposite him with the tower on his right. He hasn’t got a revolver shell now that their lessons are over for the day, so he pulls a silver coin out of his pocket. A bright, well polished coin, Vannay informed them, has more shine with which to capture the eyes and tame the mind, yet its shape makes it more difficult to perform the action smoothly enough for it to be effective. Unlike his ka-mates, Alain had mastered the coin immediately.

“Show off,” Cuthbert smirks fleetingly at Alain before turning his attention resignedly to the coin. “Go on, then.”

“Cuthbert Allgood, hear me very well,” Alain recites as though he is in one of Vannay’s lessons, “I want you to watch this coin. Do not take your eyes off . . .”

“I am watching the coin,” Cuthbert interrupts in a silly voice in imitation of a magician or a possessed person. He laughs, but he does not take his eyes from the coin as it rolls back and forth across Alain’s thick fingers. “You’re very good at that,” he murmurs sleepily.

“Yes,” Alain agrees, “For once I am.”

Cuthbert smiles. It is an odd, slack version of his usual sweet smile. It lingers for a moment - his longest smile since he suggested that they practice - before his face relaxes completely into blankness, and his dark eyes stare, unseeing, at Alain’s hand. 

Alain suppresses the urge to swear. Cuthbert has gone under easily again, while they were having a (fucking) conversation, and he hardly used the touch at all. Much as Alain thrills at being good at this, he wants Cuthbert to succeed in fighting him, to prove he is not weak. Alain flips the coin into his palm. Cuthbert’s eyes do not follow the movement. Alain sighs.

“Cuthbert, son of Robert, can you hear me?” he goes on.

“Yes,” Cuthbert’s voice is expressionless. It’s unnatural, and Alain hates it. He should have been dreading this, too. He hopes they don’t have to do it again.

“Tell me my name,” he commands.

“Your name is Alain Johns, son of Christopher.”

“Good. Where are we now?”

“On the flat part of the motte on the east side of the East Tower of Castle Gilead.”

“What do you call it?”

“The flat part of the motte on the east side of the East Tower of Castle Gilead.” The same answer in the same monotone. That’s a start.

Alain reaches out his mind, calling on a touch he is just learning to control. “What do you call it?” he asks again.

“East Tower Lawn,” Cuthbert says immediately.

Alain sighs again. He asks other questions and receives all the answers he expects. When he asks what Cuthbert dreamed about last night, he launches, in the same blank monotone, into an unexpected and physically implausible description of an imaginary encounter with a girl he saw weaving a basket in the market, and Alain, flustered, stops him half way through. Now Alain is hard as well as frustrated. Cuthbert sits, impassive, and waits for Alain to ask him something else. 

Alain cradles his head in his hands. “Why did you bring me here?” he moans.

“Because I did not want anybody to interrupt us. I did not want anyone to hear or see.”

Alain had guessed this already.

“Yes, but why?”

“It’s a secret.”

Alain looks up. Has he found a wall that’s still in place? He might just mean that the place is a secret. He’ll eliminate that possibility first.

“You come here with Roland.”

No answer. It takes a moment for Alain to realize that he hasn’t asked a real question. He rephrases: “Is the place, East Tower Lawn, a secret place for you and Roland?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you bring me here instead of waiting until Roland could come?”

“I don’t want to do this with Roland.”

“Why not?”

“You are stronger. You can test me more.”

Alain is flattered, and, again it takes him a moment to realize that something is amiss. This was an oddly evasive answer for somebody under hypnosis - he answered why Alain might be a better practice partner, not why he does not want to practice with Roland.

Alain pushes again with the touch. “Why don’t you want to practice with Roland?”

“I practice with Roland all the time.” Evasion again, taking advantage of the non-specific nature of the question.

This time, Alain wraps his fingers around Cuthbert’s limp hand, musters his command of the touch, and asks, “Why don’t you want to practice hypnosis with Roland?”

Cuthbert makes an odd choking, clicking sound in the back of his throat, and Alain begins to worry, but when he speaks his voice is as clear and monotonous as before. “I don’t want him to see inside me.”

Alain sympathizes, and he thinks he understands now why Cuthbert was dreading this. He feels like he is violating this beautiful, kind boy, the closest friend he has. “Is it alright for me to see inside you?” he asks, hoping to appease the queasy feeling in his stomach.

Cuthbert takes a long time to reply, as though even his subconscious mind is uncertain of the answer. 

Alain holds his breath. 

“Yes,” he says at last.

Alain lets his breath go and is about to ask why it is alright for him to see and not for Roland when Cuthbert speaks again, seemingly unbidden: “Push deeper.”

Alain gasps, and he is hard again. Hard because the phrase recalls the breathy words of lovers he has gleaned, mostly accidentally, through the touch, and hard because Cuthbert, whom he has always admired for more than his looks, is more lucid than he had thought. Alain takes a deep breath. He gathers both of Cuthbert’s slender hands - still limp - in his, closes his eyes, and reaches towards him with the touch. He does not ask a question. Instead, he focuses first on the physical contact between their hands, then on the hole opened in Cuthbert’s mind by the hypnosis. He pushes his entire consciousness through it, into Cuthbert’s living brain.

“Remarkable,” says Cuthbert in his normal voice, “I thought you maybe could, but it’s another thing to feel it happen.”

Alain opens his eyes. Cuthbert is sitting across from him, cross legged, on East Tower Lawn, and at first Alain thinks his experiment has ended the hypnosis. 

“You’re awake,” he observes.

“No, silly,” Cuthbert laughs, “You’re in here.” He taps his forehead.

Alain scoffs. Then he notices that there is no gash on Cuthbert’s cheek. He says so.

“Of course not. If there’s nothing for me but my looks I’d best watch out for them.” He winks.

Alain does his best to smile. “I wondered if you’d heard that.”

“Goodness, no! I took it from your head just now when you were thinking I deserve more credit than I get. I’m flattered, but you should take care. You’re in my mind, remember.”

Alain blushes and slams a wall up around his own inner thoughts with ease.

“Shame,” teases Cuthbert.

“Bert . . .” Alain groans then stops himself. “Am I allowed to call you that?”

Cuthbert looks at him oddly. “Of course you are. We’re friends. I let you come inside my head. Call me whatever you like.”

“Cuthbert . . .” Alain starts again.

Cuthbert laughs and rolls his eyes. “Alain . . .” he mimics.

“What are we doing?”

“Practicing!” Cuthbert grins and stands. “It’s more fun than I expected. We should do this part again.” He steps off the ledge and Alain gasps and scrambles to reach for him, but he skips away, dancing out over the air and hovering above the long drop. Alain teeters at the edge. “Careful there,” Cuthbert teases, “This is my mind, you know; I might just let you fall.”

Alain stares down toward the river. “What would happen if you did?” 

“Perhaps you’d bounce,” Cuthbert suggests.

Alain folds his arms over the paunch of his belly and scowls. Cuthbert frowns and steps back onto the grass. Shoulders hunched, he leans against the tower wall. 

“I cry your pardon,” he mutters, “I don’t know how much control I have over you while you are here. It isn’t real. If you could fall, I reckon you would just wake up.”

Alain hates to see him glum again. “No, I must cry your pardon,” he insists, “I am oversensitive, perhaps, to the differences between us. It was nice to see you smile - you were so grim on our way here.”

Cuthbert studies him for a long time. At last, he says, “I’ll smile for you again when this is over.” Then he nods as though he has decided something. “I’m going to pick a number, and you are going to try to find it in my mind. Then you can tell Roland whether you think I am safe.”

Alain nods. “Have you got it.”

“Yes.”

“Is your number odd or even?”

Cuthbert laughs. “Oops! Did I smile already? Do you know what I love? Those little pastries with the jam inside, all buttery and wrapped up around themselves with extra sugar on top.”

Alain goggles at the non sequitur. “Is that a clue?”

“Are you deficient?”

Alain stares as Cuthbert leans back on the grass, making himself comfortable. It wasn’t a clue. Cuthbert’s manifestation of himself is a distraction. Alain makes a rude gesture at him and sidles back around the tower.

Unlike in reality, this version of East Tower is free standing - the rest of Castle Gilead is gone - and the motte falls off sharply all the way around. Alan circles it twice, running his hands along the surface of the bricks and stepping over Cuthbert when he passes him, before he finds the hidden door. He has to jam his fingertips in the cracks to get it open. It hurts, and he wonders if the hurt is imaginary or if Cuthbert’s mind can physically damage him while he is here.

Inside, the tower is dark. Alain feels around. He finds a staircase. Perhaps if he counts the stairs that will be Cuthbert’s number. Carefully, in the darkness, he steps up one stair, then another, letting his hand slide along the cold brick wall for support. He climbs endlessly, at least three hundred stairs, then loses count. Cuthbert has set no parameters for his number. It could be enormous.

“A number between what and what?!” Alain calls into the darkness.

“I’ll answer that one to be fair,” Cuthbert’s voice comes from right behind him. 

Alain starts, spins around, and falls so he is sitting on the stairs, but of course he can’t see Cuthbert. The darkness is complete.

“Between one and one hundred,” Cuthbert tells him, “don’t worry, I’m not changing it.”

“Won’t you give me a light, at least?”

“Make me,” Cuthbert challenges. Alain wishes he could see his face.

Alain stands and reaches toward the space where Cuthbert’s voice had seemed to be, but, of course, nothing is there. Make him. That is the point of this exercise, isn’t it?

Because he is tired of climbing upward, Alain begins descending slowly downward, feeling again for flaws in the brickwork. He is, he realizes, using his imaginary fingers to reach out with the touch, augmented by hypnosis, to stab at Cuthbert's mental defenses. Eventually, he finds a chink and forces his fingertips inside, impregnating each jam and tug with the thought, “Give me a fucking light!”

When the door opens at last it is into a long torchlit hallway with doors on each side. Alain guesses it is foolish to try the doors, but he does anyway. He opens the first door on the left and finds what seems to be Cuthbert's own bedroom, which he has never seen before. It is a small room with an adult sized bed - sturdy, wooden - and a wardrobe. Alain opens it and sees clothes he recognizes. The room has a window, which overlooks the Bergher Forest. Are the Allgood family quarters really in the East Tower? Alain sticks his head out the window and looks down. He has to lean dangerously over the ledge to see him, but, sure enough, Cuthbert is still down there, still reclining on the lawn. He looks up at Alain and waves. Alain pulls his head in.

It is oh so tempting to continue to explore the room, to see if Cuthbert has left any secret thing about himself lying around for Alain to find, but that's just what Cuthbert wants. Reluctantly, Alain leaves the room and tries the one across the hall. It is the same. Alain leans out the window. Cuthbert waves.

Alain tires the next door down just to be sure: same room again, and this time when he leaves he comes out the hall’s first door again. He doesn't try any more doors.

He walks up and down the hall, prying at the bricks between the doors. He scratches at the doors themselves. He opens all of them but does not go inside. Eventually, he goes back into the room. He climbs inside the wardrobe, back behind the hanging clothes, but finds no weakness in its wooden back. He peels the blankets off the bed. There are too many blankets. Alain grins. When he has discarded what seems like hundreds of blankets, he reveals a trapdoor where the mattress should be. He opens it onto darkness and lowers himself inside. His feet hit solid ground. Grass. He is on East Tower Lawn, back where he started. He swears.

“Oh, did I do that?” Cuthbert asks. Alain whirls around. Cuthbert is sitting with his back leaning up against the tower wall. He looks tired, but he wears a cocky smirk. “Am I safe?”

“I suppose I could keep trying. This could go on for hours.”

“It might have been hours already.”

Alain considers this. Time didn't seem to pass while he was exploring Cuthbert's mind. “How long has it been?”

Cuthbert shrugs. “I've no idea. You have me hypnotized, remember?”

Alain pinches the bridge of his nose. “I think you're safe, but I need to try it that way, too. You'll wake up soon, I promise.”

Cuthbert nods, his grim expression back. Alain needs to finish this and see him smile properly. He closes his eyes and extricates himself from Cuthbert's mind with hardly any effort at all.

When he opens his eyes it is dark. Hours have indeed passed, and they have missed supper. Cuthbert is still sitting across from him, pale in the moonlight. His nose has been bleeding, but the blood is mostly dry now. In the darkness, it leaves a black trail down from his nostril, around his lips to the corner of his mouth and down his chin. A few drops have splattered on his shirt. Alain remembers how tired Cuthbert had looked in his mind. He hates himself for hurting him, but he has to finish this. Then they will never do it again. He doubts he'll get his smile, though.

Still holding Cuthbert's hands, he stares into his open, blank, dark eyes. One is very bloodshot. “Cuthbert, can you hear me?”

“I hear you, Alain.” The same monotonous drone as before.

Alain breathes a sigh of relief. Then, “Tell me the number you are thinking of.”

Nothing

“Are you thinking of a number?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me the number.” He pushes hard. 

Cuthbert's nose begins to bleed again, and a vein bursts in his bloodshot eye, filling half of his sclera with blood. “My number is between one and one hundred,” he says.

“Is you number odd or even?”

“My number is between one and one hundred.”

“Is your number more than fifty?”

“My number is between one and one hundred.”

Alain pushes as hard as he can. “Tell me the number you are thinking of!”

Cuthbert does not answer. A tear slides from his bloodshot eye; it has some blood in it. His eyelids wobble. He is going to pass out.

Alain swallows a sob and forces his voice to be strong. “Listen to me, Cuthbert Allgood, and hear me very well. When I tell you, you will wake up, and you will remember everything. Now, wake!”

Cuthbert blinks, and his irises snap to Alain's face. He pitches forward and sluggishly tugs his hands, no longer limp, from Alain's grasp in a clumsy attempt to catch himself. Alain releases his hands and reaches up to steady him. Once he touches Cuthbert’s shoulders he can't stop himself, and he pulls the boy into a tight embrace.

“You're safe,” he whispers firmly in his ear, revelling in the smell of the sweat in his hair, “You're safe.”

Alain has never hugged another boy. In fact, he cannot remember the last time he embraced anybody but his mother, who is soft and warm. Cuthbert is warm, too, but Alain is struck by his boniness. He finds himself gripping the other boy's protruding shoulder blades and revelling in the feel of his prominent collarbone pressing, unseen, against his neck. He wishes they were standing instead of sitting cross legged across from one another; with Cuthbert's chest so flat, he would be able to press their fronts together so there was no space between them at all.

At first, Cuthbert is unresponsive - surprised or still recovering from hypnosis and the trauma Alain inflicted on his mind. Then he begins to raise his arms, perhaps to return the embrace, perhaps to push Alain away. Alain does not wait to find out: he uses his grip on Cuthbert's shoulders to maneuver him so he is propped against the tower wall and shuffles to the side to give him space. 

Cuthbert leans his head back against the tower and stares up at the night sky, revealing his slender neck. Below his nose and on his cheek the lines of blood are black against his moonlight paled skin. His bloodshot eye is black as well, and the track the bloody tear made down his cheek is a gray pencil line. It is the eye he's missing in Alain's recurring dream. Alain's breath hitches, and Cuthbert's dark irises, especially prominent in the pale light, flick over to his face.

“What are you going to tell Roland?” he asks, staring at him sidelong in the darkness.

“That you're safe. He doesn't need to worry.”

Cuthbert nods fractionally, looking at him more directly now. “And what are you going to tell Vannay?”

Alain takes a deep breath. Vannay would appreciate Cuthbert's subtle tactic, his hidden strength of mind. His cleverness might, for once, earn him his teacher's praise, improve his reputation. But, for whatever reason, Cuthbert does not seem to want that. Alain answers, “Nothing.”

“Good man.” Cuthbert smiles. It's a trifle ghoulish with the blood on his face, and now he looks even more like he does in Alain's dream, laughing with Roland about how he's going to die. Cuthbert is a young man in that dream, and tonight the shadow of that future already haunts his youthful face. How much time does he have? Alain feels sick.

Cuthbert's face falls. “Not all it's cracked up to be, my smile?”

“No!” Alain rushes to reassure him. 

Cuthbert raises his eyebrows and his lips twitch.

“That is, it is,” Alain corrects himself, “It's just . . . I never meant to hurt you.”

This time, Cuthbert does smile again. “Hurt me? No, I'm fine.”

“You . . .” Alain points wordlessly towards Cuthbert's nose. His friend holds his gaze and does not lift his own hands to check his face, so Alain reaches his pointing finger over and wipes a smear of blood from just above his upper lip. He shows the blood to Cuthbert. “I hurt you. Cuthbert - Bert - I hurt you. And your eye is bloodshot. You were weeping blood. You were going to pass out, and what would have happened then?!”

Now Cuthbert does raise a finger to his lip and touch the blood there. His eyes are wide. “I,” he stammers, “I’m not sure.” He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, spits on it, and begins to dab at his face. “But . . .” Alain thinks he sees his smile return around the edge of the hanky, “you do remember that I asked you to.”

Alain frowns. He had asked him to practice with him. Under hypnosis, he had said that Alain could test him more than Roland. Some of his other answers echo in his mind: I don’t want to do this with Roland; I don’t want him to see inside me.

“I remember,” Alain admits, “but I still don’t understand why.”

Behind his handkerchief, Cuthbert opens his mouth to speak. 

Alain snatches the handkerchief away and presses on before he can. “Why didn’t you want Roland here?” He spits on the hanky and wipes away the spots of blood that Cuthbert missed.

“Hypnotized people don’t lie, Alain.” Of course, Alain had told him to remember what he’d said. “Roland will believe you when you tell him I am safe,” he adds, “He may be arrogant and standoffish, but he likes you, really, and he sees your strengths. He just doesn’t have the words to say so.”

“That’s what you’re for,” Alain guesses, earning himself another smile. He smiles himself, both because it will make Cuthbert smile wider and because of the warmth that forms in his chest and belly at the thought that Cuthbert likes and trusts him well enough to poke fun at Roland’s flaws in front of him. But there is one more question he is burning to ask: “I Know that he relies on you. He sees your strengths, too, and uses them against his weaknesses. Why don’t you want him to see this one?”

“He’ll see it when you tell him. But he doesn’t need to know the details.” The more people who know, the more vulnerable I will be. This last remains unspoken, but Alain can hear it as clearly as if Cuthbert had voiced the thought out loud.

“You’ve made yourself vulnerable to me,” Alain reminds him, half in awe.

Cuthbert smirks. “Have I? I’ve tested you as well.” He jumps up, seemingly recovered now, although his eye is still half full of blood. “Bed, I think. ‘Tis a pity we missed supper.” 

He sidles carefully around the tower in the dark, and Alain follows. When they reach the courtyard, Cuthbert stops. 

“Thank you, Al. I’m grateful. And there were things I’d like to try again. Not,” he wipes self consciously at his nose, “but, you know. Shit, I’m tired.” He smiles his sweetest smile (Alain’s heart races) then pulls his friend into a tight embrace, front to front, just as Alain imagined. 

Alain is overwhelmed: Cuthbert’s long arms wrapped all the way around his back, his soft straight hair - almost shoulder length - tickling his cheek and teasing his nose with its scent, his flat chest and bony pelvis pressed against Alain’s fleshier body. Alain bites his tongue and hopes he won’t get hard again. Cuthbert touches Roland all the time and now, apparently, he touches Alain, too. Alain touches him back as only he can. There is warm affection in his mind but bone weakening exhaustion, too. The puzzle inside Cuthbert’s mind had been frustrating, but it did not tax Alain the way it has taxed Cuthbert. In fact, the experience has been exhilarating overall. At last, Alain is strong. He squeezes Cuthbert back, then steps away. Cuthbert wavers a little then stands tall. He smiles again and disappears into the tower, and Alain is certain he is heading up, up, up to the room he showed him in his mind. He imagines a younger Cuthbert leaning precariously out his window to the horror of his mother or his nursemaid then rushing to tell Roland about the wonderful new hiding place he found: East Tower Lawn. He grins.

3

The next day, Cuthbert’s eye has improved, but the blood in his sclera is still noticeable. Cort looks at him askanse and rides him extra hard, smacking him about the face before he even has a chance to bid Roland “Good morning.” By the time he limps his way to Vannay’s library there is blood in his smile, and only Alain knows that his damaged eye is not courtesy of Cort. Perhaps because they share a love of riddles, perhaps because, in spite of repeated beatings and consistent ridicule, Cuthbert’s ill regarded, jaunty spirit never seems to break, Cort holds Cuthbert in higher regard than he lets on. He can’t be certain the extent to which Cuthbert understands this, but Alain has Known it for some time. Today, however, when he tries to press into Cort’s mind in search of what he saw in Cuthbert’s eye that made him want to hide it, Cort glowers at him and punishes him more brutally than usual for his comparative slowness. Perhaps it was one of Cort’s lessons that made Cuthbert decide that there is strength in being underestimated. Cort is harsh and violent but clever, and a boy born to the gun rarely forgets a lesson learned under his tutelage; often he will bear a scar as a reminder.

With his own fat lip and swollen eye, Alain asks Vannay what would happen to a person who passed out while under hypnosis. This question - utilizing rather than challenging his knowledge - Vannay answers:

“If a person you have hypnotized passes out, he will remain unconscious for a long time, but, when he wakes, he will regain his senses. This is rare, and you are not like to see it. A weak or willing mind will offer no resistance, and the subject will undergo no ill effects. A strong, well trained, unwilling mind will shut you out. Few among us would be strong enough to batter a robust opponent’s mental defenses with the force of our own mind to the point they manifested physical effects. Then, if neither side gives in, the subject may pass out. In your case . . .” Vannay pauses to frown thoughtfully at Alain, “It is foolishness not to admit weakness, so I admit that I do not have enough experience with your particular talent to know the limits of its strength - it is possible you might be able to overpower someone in this way. If you continue to train your mind so that you can control your gift you will be a formidable asset.”

Roland stares at Cuthbert throughout Vannay’s entire speech.

Later in the same lesson, they learn something else Alain is good at: sleight of hand. Like rolling the coin across his knuckles, hiding objects and picking pockets require the subtler, more fluid movements at which Alain excels. While Roland and Cuthbert pride themselves on speed and accuracy in combat, they are so conditioned to these sudden movements that they have difficulty mastering the light touch required for such delicate work. Suddenly, fast enough and accurate enough are assets, and Alain is the only boy in the lesson who can complete all of the exercises without being seen or felt. Cuthbert claps him on the back in front of everyone and smiles. Alain is on top of the world.


	3. Fourteen, in two parts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexual content begins in the chapter. Definitely underage (14), which is Stephen King's fault, really.

1

By the time Alain plucks Susan’s long blond hair from Roland’s collar in Mejis a year later, Roland is his friend and Cuthbert is his bosom companion. The other boy still favors Roland, of course - he has been raised to serve him, and they are loving friends, besides - but when he is not with Roland or they are not all three together he is almost always with Alain. They practice their exercises and explore the city. Alain grows stouter from indulging Cuthbert’s sweet tooth and propensity for snacks, but, with an added year of puberty and all the additional calisthenics that come with having such a manic, exuberant friend, he can tell his muscles are growing, too. He wrestles Cuthbert on East Tower Lawn and pins him every time. Then, Cuthbert smiles up at him and lets him in his mind.

Alain rolls off his friend and lies beside him in the sunlight, hand in hand. At first, they have to close their eyes and leave the world behind. With Cuthbert welcoming and willing, no hypnosis is necessary; he opens up and Alain slips inside. This is fun but not particularly useful except as a release. After practicing, however, they are able to prolong the connection after they open their eyes. They lean against the tower wall, hands locked, and conduct entire conversations inside their heads as they watch the birds fly over the Bergher forest. Soon, they no longer need to touch except to initiate the connection. Alain misses the hand holding but loves being able to speak to Cuthbert secretly from across the room. A friendly pat on Cuthbert’s shoulder or a gentle elbow in Alain’s belly and, if Cuthbert is willing, Alain can slip inside his mind and stay there while they go about their day. They can talk, and he can feel Cuthbert’s emotions. He can feel so many things - whatever Cuthbert doesn’t have locked up. He even feels his physical pain. Alain gets off on it (he keeps his own walls high and tight around that), not because Cuthbert is hurting but because it is so intimate, to feel what his friend feels not only with his mind but with his body.

Eventually, they don’t need to touch physically at all. Alain sends his mind off with the touch until it brushes Cuthbert’s, and Cuthbert opens up and lets him in. The more they practice, the farther apart they can be, but they still meet on East Tower Lawn.

“I have a thought,” Cuthbert announces out loud. They are playing Watch Me, and Alain is not inside his mind. He’s tried several times, playfully, only to be shut out and teasingly reprimanded as a cheat.

“I’ll run and tell Vannay,” Alain jokes.

Cuthbert grins. “You can touch my mind, right? You can talk to me, and hear me back, and exchange feelings.”

“Right.”

“And you can touch other people, too, even if they’re not helping.”

“Yes.” He can touch Cuthbert when he’s not helping, too, but he doesn’t get much; he keeps his walls up stronger than he used to when he wants his mind to be his own.

“Well, what if you could use my mind to help instead.”

Alain lays his hand down, cards forgotten. “What do you mean ‘use your mind?’”

“Well,” Cuthbert thinks for a moment, looking down at the abandoned game, “When we use the touch to talk, you have to go inside me first.”

Alain gulps. “Yes.”

“And then we exchange things from there. What if you went inside my mind and I gave you some of it to borrow, and then you took it with you somewhere else.”

“You want me to pull your mental strength out of your head and use it to amplify my access to the touch?” That can’t be it. Alain remembers Cuthbert bleeding in the moonlight.

“Yes, that’s it!”

“For fuck’s sake, why!?”

Cuthbert stares at him. “Because I want to see if you can. And I think it might be useful. There’s liable to be times when the only one of us who can do anything useful will be you, and if this works I can help you do it better instead of waiting like a lump. A very pretty lump, but still.” He grins again.

“You know you’re more than just a pretty face,” Alain says warily, “to Roland and to me. And Cort, I’d wager, and your parents . . .”

“Yes, yes, yes. I’m wonderful. Now try it.” He scoops up the cards, packs them away, leans back against the tower wall, raises his eyebrows, and offers Alain his hand.

It has been a long time since their experiments required holding hands, and Alain’s reservations melt away at the temptation. He scoots back against the wall and takes it. “Close your eyes,” he instructs, “I think this needs more concentration.”

Cuthbert does, and Alain slides into his mind with a satisfied sigh. It has been a long time since they did it like this.

“I’ve missed it, too,” Cuthbert admits, sitting beside him, still holding his hand, on his mind’s East Tower Lawn, “I’m tempted just to stay, but I want to try this. Take me with you when you go.” In his mind, he squeezes Alain’s hand.

Alain concentrates on their imaginary physical connection inside Cuthbert’s mind and pulls Cuthbert back into his own head. 

Suddenly, they’re standing, and they stumble against each other. In Alain’s mind, they’re on the other side of the East Tower where Cuthbert first embraced him, and the stumble has forced them into a similar pose. Secretly, behind his mental wall, Alain curses himself for the scenario his subconscious has created. 

Cuthbert laughs. “A little bumpy, but look! You did it on the first try.” He extricates himself from Alain’s arms and looks around the courtyard. “Where shall we go from here?”

“As far as we can,” Alain decides, “We’ll test our combined powers that way. I can rarely feel anybody beyond the city walls.”

Cuthbert nods agreement and offers his imaginary hand again. Alain takes it and pushes outward, pulling Cuthbert with him. Except it doesn’t feel like he is pulling anything; Cuthbert is just there, his mind intentionally blank, feeding Alain the energy he needs to soar far beyond the city walls to Debaria where Gabrielle Deschain is deep in prayer and dreading her return to Gilead. There is a man there, not her husband, whom she loves and hates with all her soul . . . Alain closes that connection quickly. He does not want to Know. 

Alain opens his eyes and gasps for breath. His mind is tired, but he feels heady with power. Cuthbert’s head is resting heavily on his shoulder; his hand is limp in Alain’s. Alain turns to look at him and gets a face full of soft, dark hair. He buries his nose in it, then pulls away, jostles his shoulder a little, and whispers, “Wake up.”

To Alain’s relief, Cuthbert does. He blinks blearily at Alain. “Well, shit.”

“It worked.”

“And then some,” Cuthbert smiles darkly.

“You were with me all the way. You saw.”

“And felt and heard. I’ll be ready, if you ever want to do it again.” Although this had been Cuthbert’s idea he does not sound terribly thrilled at the prospect now that he has had a tiny taste of what Alain’s ‘gift’ is really like.

Alain snorts. “At least you’re spared the dreams.”

Cuthbert squeezes his hand.

2

The next time Alain uses Cuthbert’s mind like this they are in Mejis. Cuthbert has been in a dark mood for weeks - angry and jealous. Alain has been uncharacteristically reluctant to touch him, and Cuthbert has been uncharacteristically reluctant to talk, except in bitter rants. As such, Alain cannot tell whether Cuthbert is jealous because he can’t have Susan for himself (he remembers the dream about the basket girl), because Roland - to whom he has already dedicated his life - prefers the company of somebody outside their ka-tet, or because he wanted Roland for himself. He suspects the second reason, but that may be wishful thinking. He knows where his anger comes from.

Alain is angry, too. He is angry at Roland for stirring up trouble and for making Cuthbert feel second best, and he is angry at Cuthbert for not being able to hold his emotions in check, rise above his foul mood, and be the supportive friend that Alain needs. Alain has always known he’s second best for Cuthbert, but it hurts to see them flaunt it in his face, however incidentally. That the slight is incidental makes it even worse. Alain is incidental. Why can’t his two friends settle their differences so that Alain can go back to deceiving himself into thinking he is Bert’s companion of choice?

Absurdly, this fucked up experience has also brought them closer together. They are now thoroughly ka-tet, Alain can feel it, and, with Cuthbert so closed off, the touch pushes his mind instead toward Roland, who, before their ka-tet bond matured, had previously been more guarded. When he is conscious it is not too problematic; he gets whifs of Roland’s emotions more often than before, especially when he is near or speaks to him directly, but it’s manageable - he gets as much from many people he encounters. Asleep, however . . . 

When Alain is asleep, Roland is usually with Susan, his emotions running high. His outpouring of love - what Alain wants most of all - sparks the unwanted connection between them, and his lust and pleasure flow in after. Night after night, Alain wakes hard and sweaty, aching for a sweet release but too afraid to touch himself lest Cuthbert, forever a light sleeper, overhear. Tonight, he wakes before the dream is done.

Cuthbert’s hand is on his shoulder, his dark eyes wide with concern. He looks so sweet and kind, just like before, that Alain, still half asleep, can’t stop a little keening sob from breaking in his throat. Cuthbert sits on the edge of his cot and lays his cool, long fingered hand across Alain’s hot forehead. Alain pulls away, and Cuthbert leaps back as if burned.

“I cry your pardon,” he stammers, sounding hurt, as if he had not been the one to push Alain away the moment Roland had upset him, “You were moaning in your sleep. You said your dreams . . .” He trails off and looks away. 

Alain remembers mentioning his dreams that time he used the extra strength of Cuthbert’s mind to touch Gabrielle Deschain. If he had listened to her longer could he have prevented Roland’s reckless bid to win his guns and challenge Marten Broadcloak? That is, after all, why they are here. He grimaces. Cuthbert is waiting for an answer. “If I moaned it was because of my dream,” he admits, “but not in the way you are thinking.” He gives Cuthbert what he hopes is a significant look.

“Oh,” murmurs Cuthbert, “Oh! I cry your pardon.” He is retreating to his own cot now, and Alain does not want him to go. He’s hard and hot and wants to stare at Cuthbert shirtless in the moonlight. He wants to be inside him like he used to be before. He wants his friend back. And he’s angry that Cuthbert should choose this moment to embarrass him with his concern when he has spent weeks in a fiery sulk. He’s angry that Roland is getting off and he is not allowed to but he has to feel it anyway, angry that Roland’s pleasure is the root of the thorn in their ka-tet.

“It’s a curse. You know that, right?” he spits at Cuthbert’s dim, retreating back. 

He turns and stares. 

“And it isn’t fucking fair. The other dreams are worse, say true, the ones about fire and death, but this is awful, too. You talk like ka is nothing. An excuse. But you can’t feel. You can’t feel the way it wants the three of us to be ka-tet, how it pushes me at him every chance it gets because you’re closed up tight. And all he does is fuck!”

Cuthbert’s breath catches. His eyes are huge, and his lips are parted. He opens up his mind - an apology, or is he too surprised to supress what was once habit? Alain only has to barely brush it to see he is a mess. And he is definitely aroused. If he had ever been turned on before when Alain was truly in his mind (reciting his dream under hypnosis doesn’t count) he had hidden it just as Alain had done, but he isn’t hiding it now. Alain is almost certain Cuthbert is a virgin, but he looks like sex. He decides it’s his turn to be reckless.

“Don’t believe me?” Alain challenges, “Come and see for yourself.” He extends a sweaty palm. 

Cuthbert takes a half step forward and stops. Alain can almost feel his heart beat.

“What, frightened?” Alain taunts nastily, “You’re already a jealous wreck. How much worse can it possibly get?”

Cuthbert laughs, and that is nasty, too, at first, and then just dark as it ebbs into a chuckle. “I reckon we’ll find out.” He crosses back to Alain’s bed and sits on the floor beside it, leaning against the rail of the cot. He reaches up behind his head and clasps Alain’s proffered hand.

Alain acts quickly. He doesn’t want to think things through, and he doesn’t want Roland to be finished. Although they’ve only done this once before, Alain procedes with confidence, not bothering to fully enter Cuthbert’s mind before he tugs his open consciousness into his own. They’re in the courtyard next to the East Tower, and then they’re soaring over Hambry and into Roland’s mind. 

Alain was right - there isn’t much time left. Already Susan is coming, coming, crying out and clenching her hot, slick passage around his desperate cock. She buries her face in his neck and murmurs how much she loves him, calling him by his real name. The grass beneath his hands and knees is so, so, soft. It makes him want to touch her breasts. He pulls up onto his knees so he can see her all laid out beneath him, tall and slender with small, pert breasts just big enough to bounce with every thrust. Her head is rolling back and forth, her eyes drifting closed again and again. Grass and twigs and leaves tangle in her long, blond hair. He reaches down and fondles one soft breast and then the other, caressing their roundness and running her hard nipples along his palm. 

“Kiss me, Roland,” she demands.

He stops thrusting for a moment, and Alain lets a little of his mind come back to his own body. He’s very close himself, and he throws off the blankets and pushes down his underpants as best he can while holding Cuthbert’s hand. Cuthbert moans as Susan laps at Roland’s mouth then begs him to come for her. He locks his arms, thrusts hard, and does. Alain comes, too, without using his hands. He shuts down the connection.

Cuthbert stays conscious this time, but his voice is slurred by his arousal and his somewhat absent mind. “Do you think Roland will notice if I spill here on the floor?”

They are still holding hands. Alain sits up and looks. Cuthbert has his underpants around his ankles, then he kicks them off completely. Since he was shirtless already he is now completely naked, and his long fingered hand is clasped around his rock hard cock and stroking up and down. He lays his head back on the mattress and looks up at Alain leaning over him. He is expecting an answer.

“No,” Alain manages, “I think he has other things on his mind.”

Cuthbert huffs a bit and keeps looking up at him. It is dark, and he is aroused, so his pupils are enormous, almost indiscernible from his deep, brown irises. 

“You should do it anyway,” Alain suggests.

This time Cuthbert laughs, but it’s breathy and ends in a moan. He keeps looking at Alain, who is torn between loving watching his face and wanting him to look away so he can stare down at his cock. If he were braver, he would kiss him. 

Cuthbert solves his dilemma by closing his eyes as he arches his back, pressing his head down hard against the mattress, and comes, spilling, as they had discussed, upon the wooden floor. Alain sees the first stream of creamy white strike the floorboards then looks back up at Cuthbert’s face, slack with momentary bliss. The light is too pale and dim to see how he is flushed, but he is breathing hard, and his mouth is slightly open, oh so wet, his large eyes closed, his long, dark eyelashes fanned stark against his cheeks. Alain commits the sight to memory.

When he opens his eyes, Cuthbert smiles contentedly, but his good mood is brief. He leans forward, letting his long hair fall across his face, and rubs his semen into the wood grain in silence. Alain’s own seed is drying hard upon his belly. From the back, with his slender build and longish hair - not long enough for a girl’s - Cuthbert seems almost androgynously beautiful. It is a silly thought - Cuthbert is tall and bony, hard and lanky in a very masculine way that only compliments his pretty face - but it makes Alain think anyone would be attracted to him, and he is not ashamed.

“Are you thinking that I should have offered myself up to Roland first before he had the chance to . . . be distracted?”

Alain realizes suddenly that he is still holding Cuthbert’s hand. He slams up all the walls he has and lets it go, praying that he did not send his last thought through to Cuthbert by mistake. 

“I wasn’t thinking that. Is that what you want?”

“It might have saved a lot of trouble if he’d been too wrapped up in me to see her.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“I would do anything for him.”

That isn’t either. “I know.” Alain sighs. “Bert?”

Cuthbert looks up at him again. He doesn’t look like sex anymore. There are tears in his eyes.

“I want to make you happy.”

Cuthbert laughs. It is sharp and choked and sudden as though he wasn’t expecting it himself. Although he’s laughing at Alain, it is not cruel at all. He laughs for a long time, until the crackle in his throat is gone and there is nothing left but music. When he is finished, he pulls his underwear back on and turns around to face Alain straight on. He is smiling sweetly, if a little sadly. “Thank you.”

The next day nothing seems to change. Cuthbert's walls go back up and his foul mood returns. Alain despairs. But, after dark, when Roland goes to meet his lover, and Alain is lying on his cot awake for fear of dreams, he feels Cuthbert open his mind. He does not dream of Roland anymore.


	4. Fifteen

When they return to Gilead their ka-tet is stronger than ever, and the last remnants of their collective childhood have been ripped away by tragedy, bloodshed, and exhaustion. Grudgingly, Steven Deschain grants Alain and Cuthbert their guns for having proved themselves in battle, and Cuthbert wants to go and see a whore. He asks Alain to come with him: “I think we'll otherwise be missing the most pleasant benchmark. The others left a bitter flavor in my mouth.”

Alain laughs but refuses. “I'll make myself a fool.”

“Of course your will, and so will I. But one has to start somewhere.”

Alain grimaces.

“Alright. What say I go and report back?”

He leaves his mind open.

Alain finds out when he's lying in bed, utterly unable to sleep. He searches the city for Cuthbert’s presence in the presumably vain hope that he is finished with his gilly. He's not. Cuthbert has paid for a second go, and she is giving him pointers. Alain enters his mind as he enters her body for a second time. He stays inside him as he thrusts and then pulls out to try all the other salacious things that she suggests until he makes her come. He’s thrilled. She kisses him. At last, he comes inside her. Alain pulls himself off unabashedly, Knowing Cuthbert knows he's there. He has no idea what to make of it. 

It doesn’t happen again.


	5. Sixteen, in seven parts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains dark and disturbing elements, including graphic non-con. The worst of it is in section 3, but these themes are important to the plot and continue in the next chapters as well. All the warnings, remember? Seriously.

1

When they are all sixteen Roland has a vision of Rhea of the Coos, and he shoots his mother by mistake. He shuts himself up in his room. Cuthbert buys black trousers and a black waistcoat that laces tight around his slender midriff and wears them with a bright, white tunic and his new, handmade, formal black boots. He’s handsomer than ever. Paired with his long, brown hair, these black clothes make his skin look paler than it is, and his large dark eyes stand out like burning coals.

“Mourning looks inappropriately good on you,” Alain remarks. He is not dressed in black himself; Gabrielle had been a cousin of Cuthbert’s father, but Alain, whose mother’s Manni blood may be responsible for his touch, is less inbred than his friends. It strikes him then how closely Cuthbert resembles Gabrielle, and he wonders if that is why Steven Deschain dislikes him so. The birth of Roland aside, their marriage had not been a resounding success.

Cuthbert laughs like Alain hoped he would. “I’m glad someone is happy.” He smirks darkly.

Alain snorts. 

They are sitting on a wooden bench in the hallway outside Roland’s room eating popkins Alain brought from the kitchens. Cuthbert has been here ever since Roland shut himself in. It has been days, and the funeral is approaching fast. 

“Would you like a change of clothes?” Alain asks at length, “I’ll have those laundered for tomorrow.”

Cuthbert shakes his head. “Not while I’m in public. Sai Deschain has been here several times, and Roland . . . Roland might open his door.” All remnants of his smile are gone.

Alain stands and bangs on Roland’s door. “Let us in, you shithead! Your friends are here for you!”

Nothing.

Cuthbert’s dark smile returns, though. “I am grateful for you, Al.” He takes Alain’s hand like he used to do and opens up his mind. Alain slips comfortably inside. It is his cue to leave.

“I’ll come back if you need anything.”

“Say thankya,” Cuthbert murmurs. He swings his legs up on the bench and lies back with his knees up. His tailored, black garments emphasize the lean lines of his body, and his hands look over-pale folded on the dark fabric pulled tight about his trim and narrow waist.

Alain toes a new jar under the bench and leaves to empty his piss pot.

The connection between them stays open all day, living in the back of Alain’s mind as he wanders the dreary castle, waiting for something to happen. He takes tea with his parents, who have very little to say. On the archery range, he finds Jamie DeCurry, who, habitually, says even less. Although they are ka-mates, and Jamie has quietly earned his guns in the year and a half since Alain returned from Mejis, Alain does not know him very well. No one seems to, although Cuthbert, kind and outgoing, has always been friendly with him. He stands stock still when he catches sight of Alain, who nods and joins him. Silent Jamie nods back and returns to his practice. He is better than Alain but nonjudgmental, and it is something to do. Alain and Jamie shoot in silence for what seems like hours - thwock, thwock, thwock. It’s almost meditative, and Alain finds that he improves. He can understand how this more subtle, quiet weapon would appeal to this strange, quiet young man. He suspects Cuthbert has joined him here before; he’s decent with a bow and better with his slingshot - small, concealable, and silent, easy to improvise ammunition - a suitable weapon for his innovative, cunning, and deceptive friend, who hides his killer instinct behind his cheeky lip and pretty face.

Cuthbert is not silent now. In the back of his mind, Alain can hear him singing. “Take a sad song and make it better.” His sweet tenor tugs at Alain’s heart. Roland opens his door and punches him in the face.

The blow takes Alain by surprise. He shoots an arrow high over the targets and out of the range and rubs at his own face as the pain from Cuthbert’s bloody nose shoots straight to his cock.

Jamie DeCurry stares at him.

Alain is too distracted to try to read his thoughts or make an excuse for his behavior. He can feel the cloying blood in Cuthbert’s throat as he spits and grins at Roland. “I suppose you’ve owed me that,” he says.

Roland’s eyes are hard, blue steel. They rake the lines of Cuthbert’s body, taking in his lank, straight hair, his rumpled, tailored mourning suit. He moves to slam the door.

Cuthbert is fast. He shoves the long, stiff toe of his boot into the crack, and Roland’s door bounces back. He starts to close it again.

“Please, Roland,” Cuthbert whispers, “Don’t lock yourself away. On my knees, I beg you, let me in.”

Roland’s blue eye appears at the crack in the door. “You are not on your knees,” he observes woodenly, but Alain can tell Cuthbert is beginning to get to him.

“I could be if you’d open the door,” Cuthbert promises.

Roland sighs and lets him in. Cuthbert closes the connection to his mind.

Alain lets out a breath.

“Alright?” asks Jamie. 

Alain startles. Is Jamie asking after his health, or is he asking a more general question about Roland and their future? Has he guessed what he and Cuthbert have been up to all these years? Alain reaches out with the touch and finds him very guarded. He should have known better. An emotional, loudmouth joker may be easy to underestimate, but a silent man is easy to ignore.

Alain nods and gives the ambiguous question an ambiguous answer: “For now.”

The next day, Roland attends the funeral with Cuthbert following him like a shadow. Cuthbert has a black eye and a scuff on the toe of his boot from Roland’s door, but his hair and clothes are clean. Alain imagines him stripping down in Roland’s room and fails not to speculate on what he meant when he promised to beg Roland on his knees.

2

On the whole Alain is proud of how rarely he thinks about Cuthbert in the context of sex. Of fucking. If his friend has been with other girls (or Roland), he has kept the information and sensations to himself, and his own arousal at the feel of Cuthbert’s body in his mind has become such a part of daily life that it is easy to ignore his own desires. 

Then, one day, Steven Deschain makes such a thing impossible.

He sends his gloomy son off to Debaria with Jamie and, after supper, summons Cuthbert and Alain into his meeting hall. It is a meeting of a subset of the elders and, while Alain thinks he should be honored to be included, the touch fills his already heavy stomach up with dread. He wishes he had not just eaten.

Sai Deschain is there, of course, and so is Alain’s father and Cuthbert’s and Vannay the Wise. Alain and Cuthbert stand before them as they had when they had been given their guns. Each older man wears a deep frown.

“Alain, son of Christopher, Cuthbert, son of Robert,” Deschain begins. Robert Allgood grimaces and does not look his son in the eye. Alain’s full stomach reels. “I have a mission that will suit your talents,” their commander finishes. He has little regard for either of them. This will not be good. 

Once they have digested that tidbit, Steven Deschain goes on. “There is a wealthy man named Bracken Corbett, who we believe is funneling money to the rebel Farson, sowing seeds of his support within the city. I need proof. He is a meticulous businessman - there will be records of the funds, perhaps even the contacts - probably somewhere in his house. I need you to locate these and memorize them. Alain, Vannay and your father tell me you have advanced far in your command over the touch. You can sense a person coming, feel their motivation?”

“Yes, sai,” Alain answers.

“Yes,” agrees Deschain, “And I have also heard you have a talent for the slight of hand. Could you pick a lock and rifle through a desk unheard.”

“I think I could, sai.”

“Good. And could you commit what you saw to memory?”

“Cuthbert is stronger in that area than I.”

Deschain does not look pleased. “That may be, but he will not be there to help you. Could you do it with the touch?”

Alain considers using the touch to save a mental image of what he perceives. “I think so, sai.”

“Good,” Deschain nods, “take a bit of paper with you to write the information down in case you find yourself slipping.” He smiles cruelly.

Vannay leans forward and hands Alain a scrap of paper and a pencil. He hopes the tactic with the touch will work; he’s not sure he can write as silently as he moves.

There is a long silence. 

Finally, Cuthbert is compelled to speak out of turn. “And what will my job be, sai, if I won’t be there to memorize the documents?”

“Oh, you’ll be there,” Roland’s father sneers, “Corbett has a wife, Michaela, pinched and bitter. She has a taste for pretty boys like you. Your job is to distract her so Alain can do his work. You’ll meet her in the High Street after dark - she’ll never resist taking you home. Keep her busy for as long as it takes for Alain to get in and out.”

“What!?” Cuthbert gapes. Alain watches his eyes snap over to his father, who turns more visibly away. His dear friend swallows audibly. “You want me to be your gilly?”

Alain’s father, fair complected like his only son, has the courtesy to blush. 

“There must be some another way!” Cuthbert continues, “I do memorize things well, as Alain said, and we could go when they are not at home or while they are asleep.”

“Enough!” Steven Deschain bellows. “This is safer. I have kept you from the public eye, so you will not be recognized. Surely you are not a virgin?”

“No, but I . . . I don’t . . .” There is nothing he can do. Deschain has gathered their two fathers and their teacher here to be sure he has no recourse. Alain wonders if Cort’s presence would have made a difference - he had liked and respected Cuthbert in his gruff and violent way even if he had not shared his good opinion freely - but he has never recovered from the beating he received at Roland’s hands the day he won his guns, and his mind is as broken as his body. Even Robert Allgood, although he loves his son, regards him largely as a disappointment, Alain Knows. This mission puts the seal on his shame. “. . . Roland must not know,” Cuthbert finishes at last.

“Then we are of a mind at last. Good lad,” Deschain’s cruel smile is back, “This is just the job for you.”

“Why did you grant my guns, then?” Cuthbert asks. His voice is very soft. “I proved myself in battle, but you were not there. You did not have to . . .”

“This is an important mission,” Vannay assures him, interrupting. Their old teacher’s expression is dark; perhaps he thinks more of Cuthbert than Alain had guessed. He keeps his mind well guarded.

“It is,” Deschain agrees. 

He undercuts his serious assertion by reaching under his chair and tossing a shimmery, black cloth at Cuthbert’s face. He snatches it out of the air. Alain can see the muscles in his jaw strain as he grinds his teeth together and wads the cloth into a ball.

“Careful, boy, that’s silk!”

Red faced, Robert Allgood turns sharply towards his dinh.

Alain half expects Cuthbert to snap, but his reaction is the opposite of his father’s. The flush melts from his cheeks, and he smiles ingratiatingly, but it does not reach his eyes. Carefully, he unwads he garment and stretches it out. It is a tunic in the mockery of the style Cuthbert prefers - neck too wide, laces too long, sleeves too billowy, rich black silk instead of plain white or cream colored cotton. He folds it slowly and deliberately and presents it for his elders’ approval. Only Deschain and Vannay meet his dark, coal fire eyes.

“Enough impudence!” Steven Deschain declares, “Bracken Corbett is away on business and will not return before the dawn. Begone!”

Cuthbert bows elaborately then turns and leaves without a word. Alain bows more curtly and hurries after him, pushing the limits of his strong but stocky legs to keep up with Cuthbert’s long, purposeful stride.

When they reach the high street, Cuthbert is wearing the tunic. He hasn’t laced it up at all, letting the wide neck fall open, elongating his neck, revealing his collarbone, and hinting at his hairless chest. If he were to lean too far to one side, it would shift to reveal his shoulder. It disgusts Alain to think it makes him beautiful.

“Does it suit me?” Cuthbert asks, a bitter joke.

“In a way,” Alain admits, “It is attractive, but . . .”

“But I look like a whore.” Cuthbert sighs and runs his hands up his face and through his hair. “I suppose that is the point. Touch me, then, and feel for her. The way everybody talks I’ll have no trouble seducing her if I appear at the right time.”

Alain does not mistake his meaning for a moment; he enters his mind without the aid of physical contact. “You’re more than that,” he says in Cuthbert’s head, “I love you. I’ll be with you the whole time.”

This is a lie.

3

In many ways, the plan goes off without a hitch. Michaela Corbett is taken immediately with the lanky youth who courts her in the High Street. She presses several gold coins into his hand and pulls him through the shadows to her door in a nearby wealthy neighborhood. She is so absorbed in fondling and kissing him that Alain slips in behind them without any trouble at all, and he finds Bracken Corbett’s study easily and silently in the dark. In the back of his mind, Michaela pulls off Cuthbert’s silken tunic and pushes him down onto her bed. Her dress still on, she shimmies up onto his face, and he obliges. All the while, Cuthbert, mortified, shuffles through more pleasurable memories to keep himself aroused. The sweeter taste of the helpful whore Alain had felt him with, the way she’d laughed with him and taught his body how to move with hers. His shuddering orgasm onto the floor of the cabin in Mejis with Alain above him, gripping his hand. And that’s it. No Roland, no other girls. Are these the thoughts he calls upon because Alain is in his head? Alain has been with several gillies of his own since Cuthbert’s trial run. Surely that was not the extent of Cuthbert’s sexual experience? If it was, it’s not anymore, Alain thinks darkly behind the mental wall where Cuthbert cannot hear. Michaela has him naked now.

That’s when Bracken Corbett comes home.

Alain can feel him walking down the street, his eager anticipation as he heads in the direction of his door. He warns Cuthbert, but what can he do?

“Are you sure your husband won’t be coming home?” Alain hears Cuthbert ask Michaela - muffled in the other room and clearer in his head. 

She pinches at his nipples and fondles his balls, mouthing hotly against his exposed neck. “Did I say that?” she purrs and bites him.

“What?!” he cries and pulls away. “That’s not my scene.”

“What a spoiled little gilly,” she continues, crawling up his body, “so pretty he doesn’t have to turn to men to earn his coin. There are a lot of lonely wives in Gilead now, are there not, and widows? Don’t worry, we’ll pay extra.”

Corbett is closer now, and Alain can read his intent clearly. “He means to fuck you, Cuthbert,” he shouts into his head, “They planned this and they do it all the time. He means to cause you pain.”

“Does he mean to kill me?” Cuthbert sends back to Alain.

“No,” Alain is certain, “but he’ll try to if you fight him. Can you extricate yourself? Should I kill him if you can’t?” Alain fingers his gun.

“Are you finished?” Cuthbert asks.

“I have the desk unlocked, but I haven’t found the papers that we need. Why do you care?”

“I’ll do it, then. Finish and get out without them catching you. I’ll meet you under the Black Bridge.” 

Alain is about to object, but Cuthbert is already speaking in the other room.

“Alright,” he tells the woman, “Double.”

She bounces on his pelvis and pouts. “Poor boy, you’ve gone all soft. Let me watch you fix it. B will be here any minute, and I want to show him what I’ve found.”

Cuthbert forces what he hopes is a lascivious smile and strokes his cock for her, proud to see it harden as he remembers his bare ass pressed against the wooden floor and Alain’s sweaty hand squeezing his as he gets off to Roland’s distant afterglow. Alain flushes and pushes the scene in the other room into the back of his mind as he silently searches the papers.

He finds the first incriminating document not long after Bracken Corbett has entered the house. “I’ve got something!” he sends to Cuthbert’s mind.

“Finish. Get out. They’ll be distracted for a while.” Even in his mental response, he chokes on Corbett’s sour cock forced deep inside his mouth. His wife is holding Cuthbert’s hands behind his back. Alain blanches, nauseated, and tries again to focus on his task.

It is impossible. Through the wall, he hears Cuthbert’s grateful gasp when Corbett pulls out of his mouth, and he can’t stop himself from checking on his dear friend through the touch. Cuthbert is breathing harshly. Michaela, who never undressed, still has his hands restrained. Corbett steps out of his trousers all the way but leaves his shirt in place. Sweat stains are beginning to form under his arms and on his chest from his aroused exertion. He didn’t come in Cuthbert’s mouth. He rubs his penis over Cuthbert’s lips and cheeks, then cups his fine boned face in large, unyielding hands. 

“What was it my wife promised you for this, now?”

“Double pay,” Cuthbert says without a flinch. His mind is far away. He remembers Alain grasping his hand.

“Tell you what,” Corbett bargains playfully, “I’ll give you triple if you don’t scream. Nothing if you do.”

The small part of Cuthbert’s mind that is still in the present smirks. He won’t back down from a challenge. “Triple or nothing?” He cocks his head into Corbett’s hand, and Corbett’s thumb plays over his swollen lips. “Deal.”

Michaela releases his hands and claps, hooting delightedly. Bracken Corbett grins nastily. “Good,” he drawls. He spins Cuthbert around onto his hands and knees, and Michaela presses his head down even further so his ass is in the air. He tries to find purchase on his forearms, but Michaela takes hold of his wrists and attempts to pull them out from under him. Cuthbert resists.

“Now, now,” she sing songs, “Let’s play nice. I’d hate for such a pretty thing like you to go home with a bullet in his head.”

Alain’s hands fly to both his guns. He touches both the Corbetts once again. They have no intention of killing him, he assures Cuthbert and himself. They’ve done this at least fifteen times and only killed one boy - he fought.

Cuthbert stops resisting. Michaela extracts a long lace from her bodice and ties his hands behind his back. Tight. Painful. It’s going to leave a bruise. Then she cradles his head in her lap, close to her fabric covered sex. Corbett pulls the cheeks of Cuthbert’s ass apart and thrusts inside.

Cuthbert doesn’t scream for them; he is a gunslinger, trained all his life to withstand pain without outward complaint. But in his head he does. It’s horrible, and Alain almost screams, himself, almost passes out from the effort not to. He remembers how he always got off on feeling Cuthbert’s pain and hates himself. He hates himself even more when he realizes he’ll never complete the mission if he’s inside of Cuthbert’s head, feeling what Bracken Corbett does to him, sharing in his horror. Cuthbert’s sacrifice has been immense; they must succeed.

“I’m sorry,” Alain whispers in his head.

“No, please, don’t . . .” Cuthbert’s mental voice is small. Is he silently begging the Corbetts to stop, or does he realize that Alain is about to break his promise?

It does not matter. Alain closes the connection. 

He sorts through the incriminating papers as quickly as he can in silence, committing each name and figure to memory. Although he is no longer touching Cuthbert, he keeps the touch directed toward the nearby room in case he senses any homicidal urges. He needn’t worry on that account - the sadistic couple is well pleased. They are enjoying themselves so much that Alain risks jotting down a few important notes. They’ll never hear a pencil scratch over Corbett’s satisfied grunts or Michaela’s piercing giggles. Cuthbert remains silent.

Alain reorganizes the study back to the way he found it, locks the desk, and sneaks toward the front of the house, lurking near the doorway just in case he needs to come to Cuthbert’s rescue. He almost laughs at his choice of words. There is no rescuing Cuthbert, not now. Alain remains in case he needs to save his life.

Now that he is finished with his task, it is safe for Alain to reach out to Cuthbert’s mind again, but it is shut up tight. Reluctantly, he touches Bracken Corbett instead. He needs to know what’s going on.

Bracken thoroughly enjoys the boy his wife brought home. He’s pretty as a picture and responds so beautifully to pain. There’s quite a bit of blood, now, to ease the way as Bracken fucks him - he always likes to take them raw, ripping them open, and it’s even better when they’re like this one and never have been stretched. A gilly boy with a virgin ass is rare but not unheard of; he’s had one or two before. He loves it when they scream, but he admires this one for his silence. He must be in terrible pain. 

Close to coming, Bracken stops thrusting and pulls one hand from the boy’s haunches. Already a bruise is forming there. He smiles and takes hold of the boy’s long hair, so straight and silky soft. He uses it to pull him upright. This probably hurts quite a bit as well since he cannot use his hands to help. Even without him struggling, the skin on the boy’s bound wrists is red and raw, and Bracken guesses he won’t be able to work the streets for over a week. Of course, bruises are the least of his problems. With the boy upright, Bracken can feel blood trickle out around his cock and drip onto his balls. He yanks his head back by his hair so he can barely breathe. 

“Impressive, boy,” he whispers hotly in his ear, “I think you deserve to come.”

Michaela giggles in delight. She shimmies closer from where she had been watching, two fingers in her dripping cunt, and takes the boy’s soft cock in her mouth. He’s probably hurting badly, so it takes her a long time to get him hard, but eventually she coaxes an erection from his unwilling body.

Bracken changes the angle of his thrusts, then shoves his cock where he knows these boys can’t help but feel pleasure. The boy’s breath hitches slightly, and Bracken thinks he may at last be rewarded with a garbled scream - it won’t be much with his neck bent back the way it is - but he is wrong. 

“Hold this for me, dear,” he asks Michaela, and she reaches up around the boy’s back, his cock still in her mouth, to take hold of his hair. She leans on it with almost all her weight, but Bracken can tell the boy is still breathing.

Delighted, he wraps one hand around his slender neck and squeezes tight enough to bruise. He cuts off his air supply completely and pounds against that special spot, revelling in the slip slide of the blood as his cock drives into his hot, tight, hole. He’ll come as soon as he can make this boy convulse in undesired pleasure.

Alain’s hand is on his gun and he is halfway to the bedroom when Corbett lets Cuthbert breathe again. He feels Corbett’s cataclysmic satisfaction at making his victim come. He feels Michaela’s delight at the bitter taste of Cuthbert’s unwanted orgasm. He Knows they’re going to get him out of here before he can recover. Alain flees.

Concealed in the shadows on the other side of the street, Alain sees Cuthbert flung naked out the door, an ample pile of gold tossed after him. Dutifully, he bends to pick it up. To Alain’s surprise, he begins to yell as he gathers the ill-earned coins.

“You bastard, give me back my boots! Those cost me twice as much as this! There will be questions if you shoot me in the street!”

Alain is shocked by what seems to be a reckless outburst, however in character it may be for a gilly who will do anything for money, until he remembers that Cuthbert was wearing his formal boots, handmade by Gilead’s finest cobbler. If Corbett or his wife desired, they might be able to use those boots to find out who he really is. 

“Get out now, whore, or I will shoot you, neighbors damned!” Corbett hisses at him. He throws the boots in Cuthbert’s face. His hands are full of coins, so he can only duck to keep the heel of one from slamming him across the nose. He dumps the coins into one boot, puts on the other, and bows at Corbett, smirking. Then he disappears into an alley. 

Alain goes to the Black Bridge.

Cuthbert is already there. When Alain steps into the shadow of the bridge, he emerges, naked from behind a rock and looks at him. He has both his boots on now, and there is no sign of the money. Alain does not know what to say, so Cuthbert is the first to speak. 

“You left me!” he accuses softly. His voice is hoarse from being choked although he never screamed.

“I know. I’m sorry. You hurt so much I could not concentrate. I nearly passed out when you screamed. I had to get the documents, or it would all have been for nothing.”

Cuthbert looks at him, his irises black marbles in the dark. “I didn’t scream. I won my triple fair and square.” He smiles nastily.

Alain does not ask where the money is. Instead, he touches the side of his own head. “In here.”

Cuthbert looks away. When he turns back he simply looks exhausted. “Leave me again, then, and find me something to wear. I’ll clean up, and we’ll go and see Deschain. Can you remember everything that long, or should you run and see him first?”

This last is earnest, not an insult. Alain answers honestly. “I’m confident I will remember. I locked my memories in the touch, and I took some notes as well. I’d rather have you with me. I reckon he’ll find out what happened one way or another, but we’ll not give him the satisfaction of seeing how badly you were hurt.”

Cuthbert nods curtly.

“Would you like my jacket?” Alain asks, “I wish I had a cloak.”

“No. I’ll be fine. Have you a knife?”

Alain does, and he hands it over. “Would you rather have a gun?”

Cuthbert shakes his head. Alain departs.

He rushes through the streets of Gilead as quietly and unobtrusively as he can. When he reaches the castle, he retrieves Cuthbert’s white shirt, black waistcoat, and his guns from where they were hidden before heading to the East Tower in search of Cuthbert’s rooms.

He has never been here in real life, but he remembers the view from that bedroom so vividly from that fateful test three years ago that he has little difficulty approximating its position. The door is unlocked, and he slips inside and lights a lamp. He folds Cuthbert’s shirt and waistcoat and lays them on his bed, then opens up the wardrobe. Cuthbert has no other black trousers than the ones he lost, so Alain decides that it is time he gave up mourning. His other trousers (he only has two pairs) are brown, and Alain chooses the least worn, which seem newer and slightly longer. He grabs a cream colored tunic with long blousy sleeves that Cuthbert can use to cover the damage to his wrists and is about to pick out a waistcoat when the door opens behind him. 

“Bert?” Cuthbert’s mother calls.

Alain whirls around. “Lady-sai,” he says, “I apologize for my intrusion. We were on a mission, and Cuthbert needs a change of clothes.”

“How unusual,” she says, “Is he alright?”

No. “He’s fine. He just needs clothes.”

“Where is my son?” Robert Allgood appears behind his wife. While she is in a dressing gown, he is still fully dressed, ready to return to Deschain’s meeting hall when his son returns with his report.

“Where you sent him, more or less,” Alain cannot resist, “You can tell Sai Deschain we will be there to make our report in half an hour.”

Alain grabs not only a waistcoat but a jacket as well. It is rare for Cuthbert to wear both in summer, but Alain guesses he will want to be as covered as he possibly can. He pushes past the Allgoods and rushes back to the Black Bridge.

Cuthbert has cut his hair. And, oh, he looks exactly as he does in Alain’s dreaded dream. He has a few years yet, he’s sure, but time is very short.

“What say you?” Cuthbert asks.

“I am impressed.” The haircut needs some finishing touches, but Cuthbert has done well with only Alain's pocket knife and his reflection in the river.

Cuthbert smiles weakly and begins to dress. Trousers, boots (off then on again), tunic, waistcoat, jacket.

Alain unfastens the extra gunbelt from around his waist and hands it over. “They're expecting us in fifteen minutes now.”

“You saw my father?” Cuthbert has his back turned as he looks for something on top of a large, flat rock.

“I'm sorry, yes.”

Cuthbert does not comment further. Instead, he says, “This is for you.” He is looking at Alain again with something in his hand. It is a lock of his hair, braided tightly so it will not fall apart. “You might want to add a string; it isn't like to hold. To remember me by.”

“I don't want to remember you like this - like tonight.”

“Then remember me from before. I'm not growing it out again.”

“I Know,” Alain says because he does.

“You touched him.” Cuthbert refers to how his hair was used tonight. He does not seem to guess Alain is thinking of the future.

“I had to be sure that you were . . .” he stumbles: 'safe’ is clearly the wrong word, “. . . going to live,” he finishes at last.

4

Alain recites the names and figures for the elders essentially by hypnotizing himself. He sorts though his own memories and reads them back in monotone in the order that he found them in the desk When he is done, he shakes the detached feeling off and double checks his notes.

“Yes, that is all,” he tells them.

Vannay and Alain’s father smile proudly. Even Deschain commends him for a job well done.

“And your part, son of Robert?”

“Alain was not detected or interrupted. I performed the task you set.”

“And more besides, I'd wager. How did you find it?”

Cuthbert’s eyes widen fractionally. They set him up, his own father among them (and Alain's, too). Enunciating very clearly he states simply, “It wasn't very pleasant.” The understatement of the year.

All eyes are on him now. They know what he has done, what he allowed that man to do.

“Sai,” he adds after a moment when nobody else speaks, “I would rather not undertake such a mission again.”

Sadness leaks from Robert Allgood’s mind and from Christopher Johns’ and Vannay’s, too. Even Steven Deschain exudes a small amount of sympathy. He shakes his head at Cuthbert as though he were a confused child.

“You know these missions are important. Did you think you would be less pretty with your hair like that?”

Cuthbert smiles the same insincere smile as when he folded the silk tunic. “Why, no,” he says with artificial lightness, “I know exactly how I look. Already I can see how it shows off my neck and makes my eyes look larger.” 

Briefly, he caresses his own neck, letting his fingers linger for a moment on the place where Corbett choked him. When he removes his hand, the imprint of the gradually forming bruise in the area he called attention to is evident. All the men stare, including Alain.

“I need my beauty sleep,” Cuthbert says at last, “Goodnight.” He leaves without permission. 

Roland's father sighs and waves his hand, and the meeting is over.

This time Alain overtakes Cuthbert easily; he walks evenly, without a hint of limp, but slowly. He has little comfort to offer but his presence, but Cuthbert's father catches them before he has a chance to speak. He clasps his son by the shoulder, and Cuthbert stops walking but does not turn to look at him. Alain stops, too, and Robert Allgood presses on as though he were not there.

“My son,” he speaks softly, but it is easy for Alain to hear, “My son, this was a test to see how far you'd go.” He begins to add “for Gilead” as an afterthought, but Cuthbert interrupts him:

“I gathered that.”

Allgood sighs. “It was a test impossible for you to pass, whatever decision you made.”

“I gathered that as well.”

“Son . . .”

Alain can feel his strong temptation to tell Cuthbert that he brought it on himself with his cheek and soft heartedness and unorthodox behavior, which is stupid. Cuthbert is Roland's man, and he has shown nothing but loyalty to his dinh, has killed for him, has risked so much for him already. Alain cannot suppress a small sound of disgust. Cuthbert and Robert both look over at him. Cuthbert smiles briefly, darkly, before he sets his jaw and turns to face his father at last.

“Yes?” he prompts.

“How do your fare?” he asks at last.

Cuthbert stares him down. Alain realizes for the first time that his friend is taller than his father. “I burn in my body, and I ache in my heart.” He looks down at Robert Allgood’s hand, still resting on his shoulder. “I’d thank you not to touch me.”

Allgood pulls his hand back with a sharp intake of breath. Cuthbert turns and walks away toward the East Tower. 

By this time, Alain’s father has arrived, and he shepherds his son to their home in the South Wing of the castle. Unsurprisingly, Alain cannot sleep. He reaches out again and again for Cuthbert, whose mind remains closed off. He thinks Cuthbert has forgiven him for leaving his mind during the mission, but he remembers from their experience in Mejis how reluctant his friend is to let Alain inside when he is angry or upset. Alain lies awake and worries.

At dawn, he dresses quietly and leaves his rooms and walks across the near deserted courtyard to the East Tower. Cuthbert’s door is closed, of course. He knocks.

No answer.

“Bert? It’s Al. May I come in?”

There is a long pause, and Alain feels one or both of Cuthbert’s parents listening at their nearby bedroom door. Eventually, Cuthbert calls back, “Enter, and despair!”

He sounds almost like his old self making a tasteless joke, but Alain is wary. He opens the door as little as he can to slip inside. 

Cuthbert is smiling at him, but the smile is sardonic, and his eyes are red and raw. He has not been crying, Alain thinks, but neither has he slept. He is lying, fully clothed, upon his bed, still wearing even his boots and his guns. He has not even moved the little pile of folded clothes that Alain left there earlier. That is Alain’s first order of business. He scoops up the shirt and waistcoat from where they lie beside Cuthbert’s hip and sets them on a chair.

“What are you doing here?” Cuthbert asks, “It’s early, and you look as fucked up as I feel.”

Alain raises his eyebrows. He’s glad that Cuthbert has his wit, however nasty it may be this morning, but the wordplay is too dark for Alain to grant his friend a laugh. “I had to know how you were faring. Let me help you get some sleep.”

“Oh,” Cuthbert breathes out. He opens up his mind. Inside, physical and emotional pain curl into a ball of fiery rage. Many of his thoughts are safe behind his strong defensive walls - his spirit is not broken yet - but disillusionment and doubt are scattered all around like shards of broken glass. 

“I would have come sooner . . . I’ll help however I can. Sleep first.”

“Yes, mother.”

Alain tugs off Cuthbert’s boots. “Has your mother seen you yet?”

“She has. I kissed her good night. I hope she only thinks that I was in a fight.” He kicks off his boots and sits up to help Alain pull off his jacket. His fingers shake too much to unbutton his waistcoat, so Alain does that and shucks it off, as well, while Cuthbert peels off his guns and untucks his shirt.

“I’m sure she worries that you’ll lose your life.” Alain piles all the clothes on the chair and puts the guns on Cuthbert’s bedside table.

“There are worse things to lose.” Cuthbert offers up his wrists, and Alain unbuttons the fastenings of his tunic sleeves. They fall open, revealing raw rope burns and purpling bruises that will not heal for weeks.

“Oh, Cuthbert.”

Cuthbert looks away but allows Alain to clasp his hands.

“Would you like to get under the covers?” Alain asks at length.

Cuthbert shakes his head. “You’ll stay and keep me warm?”

This is not something they have done before. “Of course.”

Alain removes his jacket, boots, and belts, untucks his shirt and undoes the top few buttons and the ones at the cuffs of the sleeves. He climbs onto Cuthbert’s bed and takes him in his arms. He’s taut as a bowstring. 

“Shhh,” Alain whispers, “You’re safe with me right now.” Impulsively, he presses a kiss to Cuthbert’s temple, his lips brushing skin and short, soft hair.

It was the right thing to do. Cuthbert melts into his arms and sobs, near silently, until he falls asleep. Through it all, Alain feels Robert Allgood on the other side of the door, watching them through the keyhole. He cannot bring himself to care.

It is late afternoon when they awake. Alain feels warm and rested, and Cuthbert looks much more alive although the bruises on his neck and wrists have blossomed fully into deep, brown stains. He moves stiltedly, and Alain can feel his pain. He doesn’t think he’ll find that aspect of their intimacy arousing ever again.

“Does it make the pain less if I share it?” he asks quietly from Cuthbert’s bed as he watches him stretch his abused muscles and move around the room. There is no presence now that he can feel nearby, and it is safe to briefly speak about their secret.

“No. I didn’t realize. Am I hurting you?” Cuthbert’s brown eyes widen in shock and concern. 

Alain feels him prepare to raise a wall around his mind and answers quickly: “No! It’s more like the idea of pain, or like a dream. I used to get off on it,” he admits, “but not anymore!” he hurries on, “I only liked how intimate it felt, to feel that echo of your physical experience.”

“Like when you brought me inside Roland’s head.”

Alain blushes. They have never addressed the sexual experiences they shared during and after Mejis; although, Alain Knows, from last night, that they have been in Cuthbert’s mind. “A bit like that, but not so blatant. It was knowing that I felt what you were feeling that I liked. Pleasure is a bit more abstract; I think it translates more directly from one mind to another.”

Cuthbert nods. “And last night?”

“When I touched Corbett it was impossible to separate his pleasure from his actions. I got hard. But it was not enjoyable.”

“Like when he made me come.” Cuthbert does not speak out loud, but Alain hears it. Their eyes lock for a long moment. Cuthbert says nothing more, but Alain Knows he is grateful for his honesty and does not judge him. Cuthbert is too kind.

5

The days before Roland returns pass quietly. Alain feels like he’s living in a fog. Cuthbert keeps a bandana or an ascot round his neck and practices falconry because it gives him an excuse to wear thick gloves that cover up his wrists. He is much better at it now. Though still kind hearted, he has grown into a man who knows how to send soldiers off to die. Roland has never replaced the falcon that battered itself to death in his confrontation with Cort. He does not need to; he has Cuthbert.

And Cuthbert is there to greet him when he returns. Roland embraces him tightly but makes no mention of the change in his appearance. He nods at Alain then wordlessly departs to report back to his father. 

Cuthbert grins at Jamie DeCurry, who has been left behind. “Welcome back!” 

Alain feels ka pull Jamie closer into their ka-tet. He brushes his mind for the first time.

When Roland has finished his report, the four of them take lunch together at an inn. Cuthbert devours his gravy drenched roast beef and practically inhales a raspberry turnover as if nothing is wrong. He quickly downs his cider and lets it make him tipsy, joking and making Roland smile. The few days he was away have improved Roland’s mood, at least.

Roland is a gifted storyteller, and the three of them (including Jamie, who was there) are engrossed in his account of his adventure in Debaria when Cuthbert’s father appears at the door and beckons him outside. 

“Hold that thought.” Cuthbert smiles and ruffles Roland’s hair. He braces himself on Alain’s shoulder as he rises, and Alain accepts the invitation and slips inside his mind.

Cuthbert follows his father out of the inn and into a secluded alley. When they are out of sight, he hisses, “I do not wish to speak with you. How dare you force my hand by coming for me within Roland’s sight?!”

Robert Allgood’s guilty smile is a shadow of son’s sly one. “You’ve seen right through me.”

“I am not a fool.”

“I’m beginning to realize that.”

Cuthbert blinks at his father in offended disbelief.

“I am ashamed.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I have never understood you. I could not make my dinh see what I did not see myself.”

Cuthbert is sorely tempted to ask what he sees now, but he isn’t certain that he wants to know. Instead, he says, “I’m waiting.”

“Steven knows he behaved badly - his mind is not as cold as he is wont to think. But he was very pleased with your results. He will set you tasks like that again.”

“I know. May I go now? Your . . .” he searches for the best unpleasant word “. . . impotent remorse is of no comfort to me, and my dinh is waiting.”

“Cuthbert . . .” Robert reaches for him and remembers just in time that he had asked not to be touched. “I cannot go against my dinh, the ruler of all Gilead. The information we received was the first break in the war effort in months. But I can make sure that next time you are more experienced and more prepared.”

Cuthbert swallows hard. “You will describe the mission accurately, then?”

“I will make sure of it. And you will be more prepared. I do not wish to speculate on what you do in your spare time, what you may have done with Roland . . .”

“It sounds like you are speculating now,” Cuthbert interrupts.

His father forges on “. . . but more experience will help. Wait a week or so and go to Golden House on Blossom Row. Ask for Clarice. She’ll teach you . . . things. Take your friend, Alain, with you if you would rather it were not a stranger or a woman with a stick.”

Alain feels the blood drain out of Cuthbert’s face. He feels his breathing stop. He wants to cry. He wants to curl into a ball on the dirty cobbles of the alley and stay there until everything is over. He purses his lips. “‘I want my son to be a whore. Can you tell me where to send him so he’ll learn to take it up the ass?’” he sing songs, high and strained. Then, soft and well enunciated: “I will go and see the lady, and I will whore myself for Gilead, and, outside of Steven Deschain’s meeting hall, you will not speak to me upon the subject. Ever. Again.”

He storms out of the alley, then strides more calmly back into the inn, running his fingers through his short, dark hair in exasperation. 

“That’s much more satisfying than before when it was long,” he grins and sits with no apparent flinch although Alain can feel a twinge of pain remains. “What’s this?”

While he was gone, Roland had ordered him a second cider and another pastry. “I missed you,” Roland says with the bald and artless honesty he saves for those he loves, “Your hair suits you very well.”

Still touching Cuthbert’s mind, Alain can feel the urge to weep return. Cuthbert smiles sweetly.

6

Two weeks later Alain meets Cuthbert on East Tower Lawn. It has been a long time since they met here, and Alain thrills when Cuthbert takes his hand and sits, inviting him to step more bodily into his thoughts the way they did at first. His thrill dampens immediately when he sees Cuthbert’s manifestation of himself within his mind. Although they have completely faded in real life, the bruises on Cuthbert’s wrists and neck are dark and prominent here. Alain doesn’t like it - not one bit. He wonders if he is aware of how he looks.

“The first time you brought me here you had a wound that disappeared,” Alain observes, “Now wounds that fade in real life show darker on your mental flesh.”

Cuthbert flutters his fingers as if it doesn’t matter. “Will you come with me or not?”

Alain is taken aback. “Will I come with you to the brothel and . . .”

“And fuck me, yes. You’re not allowed if you can’t say it.”

Alain blushes. “Are you asking if I want to come with you to Golden House and . . . fuck you?” The word feels dirty in his mouth.

Cuthbert laughs darkly. “No. I know you want to. Don’t be coy. I’m asking if you will.”

Alain is almost glad his nervous doubts are there to dampen his arousal. “Is that what you want?” he asks carefully.

Cuthbert rolls his eyes. “I want a great many things. None of them involve taking buggery instruction from a high class whore.”

Alain should have known better; this is not a question Cuthbert likes to answer. He tries again: “Would it make you happy?” 

This time Cuthbert laughs softly and rubs his eyes. “Was I ever happy? I don’t know what it feels like anymore.”

“I do,” Alain says firmly. “I was happy when you hugged me in the courtyard after the first time you let me in your mind. That’s why we’re always there when you come into mine.”

Cuthbert stares at him. His imaginary lips part slightly, and the dark bruise on his neck fades just a little. 

Alain pulls out of his head. He squeezes Cuthbert’s very real hand. “I’ll come.”

Surprisingly, Cuthbert laughs and laughs. The slip was unintentional, but Alain is glad he made it.

Cuthbert is still smiling when they reach Golden House. Alain is not inside him now, so he can’t be sure how much of it is forced. Clarice, the madam, is comforting and kind. She takes them to a soft and lacy chamber and describes in detail every act two men together might perform then asks if she should stay to help. 

“No, thank you,” Cuthbert tells her, “At this point I would rather try alone.”

“Enjoy yourselves.” She winks at them. The door clicks shut, and Cuthbert locks it.

He leans for a moment against the door then unselfconsciously strips off his clothes. There is to be no kissing or careful undressing of each other, then. Alain has been hard for the majority of Clarice’s lesson, but he sees immediately that Cuthbert isn’t.

“I’m more aroused than you,” Alain admits as he strips, so Cuthbert will be prepared when he sees his heavy, swollen cock.

Cuthbert snorts. “I’m not surprised. It’s fine.” 

Alain is naked now. Cuthbert sits beside him on the bed and takes a shuddering breath. He glances once at Alain’s cock then looks down at his own feet. It isn’t fine. Last time Cuthbert did this he was tortured, and he’s only here with Alain today so he can learn to handle it better next time he has to get down on his knees for someone planning to betray the city. Of course, if the next man is like Corbett, no amount of experience will help.

“Bert,” Alain says quietly, “Why don’t you do me first?”

Cuthbert’s head snaps up. His eyes are wide.

“I want you to. Then we can try the other way around.”

Cuthbert’s lips part, but no sound comes out. He closes his mouth then tries again. “Alain,” he says, “I appreciate the offer, but . . .” he trails off and starts over, “I know . . . I know it doesn’t have to be like last time. Blood and pain and ripped in half. But I can’t stand the thought of hurting you.”

“Bert, I don’t think you will, certainly no more than I can easily withstand.”

Cuthbert shakes his head. “I do not like it.”

“But it’s alright for you?”

“Did I say that?” he snaps. 

Alain buries his face in his hands. “I don’t want to hurt you either. Don’t you know? Can’t you remember? But you always end up getting hurt.” He looks up. Cuthbert is watching him. He looks into his eyes. “Please,” he begs, “do this for me. Take me first. You can be inside my mind so you can tell whether I’m hurt.” He holds out his hand.

Cuthbert’s eyes grow wider still. His pupils expand. Is he aroused by the idea? Alain forces himself not to look at his cock. 

“Alright,” Cuthbert whispers. He places his long, slim hand atop Alain’s wide, open palm. His eyes fall shut.

Alain closes his strong fingers around Cuthbert’s slender ones. He closes his eyes, too, and enters Cuthbert’s mind. They are sitting on East Tower Lawn. He offers his hand a second time, and Cuthbert takes it once again. He pulls him back into his own head. They’re standing in the courtyard.

“Open your eyes,” Alain instructs, “and keep this connection in the back of your mind. You have excellent control. I’m certain you can do it.”

“Wait!” Imaginary Cuthbert’s hand catches his shoulder. “We’re in the courtyard.”

“Yes, of course.”

Cuthbert cocks his head at him. “We’re in the courtyard. Are you happy?”

Alain is giddy. “Yes.”

Cuthbert smiles and opens his eyes. His vision wobbles blearily at first - it takes him a moment to find the balance between his present consciousness and his connection with Alain - then his gaze focuses on Alain again. “You don’t have to, you know. You can always change your mind.”

“I’m happy to, remember?” Alain smiles. He lies down on the bed and reaches for a fancy bottle filled with special lubricant Clarice left just for them. He offers it to Cuthbert. Their fingers brush as he takes it carefully and opens it. He is a little hard now, Alain sees, although he is still nervous.

“Can we start with you like this, so I can see you?” Cuthbert asks.

“I would like that,” Alain says. He spreads his legs with confidence.

Cuthbert slicks one finger and touches it to his anus. The sensation is remarkable, and Alain moans right away.

“Really?” Cuthbert raises an eyebrow, and a smirk begins to form.

“Yes,” Alain moans, “fuck.”

Grinning wickedly all of a sudden, Cuthbert strokes the hole again and again, making the ring of muscle flutter. Alain’s cock strains.

“Try inside now,” he suggests.

Cuthbert slicks his finger again and carefully presses it ever so slowly inside. Alain accepts it greedily. The feeling is strange but incredibly arousing. Cuthbert moves his long, long finger in and around like Clarice taught, relaxing Alain’s hole as he explores inside. After a while, the friction increases and the penetration becomes less pleasant. Cuthbert can tell immediately, and he pulls out quickly and adds more lubrication before returning with a second finger. This time, he finds the bump inside, and Alain swears in pleasure. Cuthbert fingers it again and again.

“I want you inside me,” Alain says, “Do you think you’re ready now?”

Cuthbert smirks again. “I think I’ll manage. You really want this?”

“Yes!” Alain is desperate. “Fuck me.”

Cuthbert stares at him. He pulls his fingers out. “Turn over.”

Alain scrambles onto his hands and knees and spreads his legs apart again. Cuthbert’s fingers come back with more lubricant - three fingers this time - and stretch him wide. It hurts, but barely. His desire to have Cuthbert inside him far eclipses any discomfort that he feels, and he is already relaxing once again. It’s the same when Cuthbert finally breaches him with his cock. It’s hard and feels very large intruding in his body, but everything is slick, and it is Cuthbert’s cock. He moans. 

Cuthbert bends over his body, and he can feel the warmth of his chest against his own broad back. “How are you doing?”

“You tell me.”

Cuthbert huffs a little laugh. “Fair point.” He pulls himself back up to his knees, takes hold of Alain’s hips, firmly but not with bruising strength, and thrusts. He hits the bump inside him on the first try. Pleasure sparks in Alain’s abdomen and into Cuthbert’s mind. He moans and thrusts again.

He thrusts until Alain can’t take it anymore. “Oh, Bert, you’re going to make me come.” 

“Come for me, Al.” He bends close over him again and reaches one hand around to stroke his cock, which he has never touched before. His thrusts falter for a moment, but his body is well honed, and he acclimates to the new position quickly. He only needs to jerk Alain a few more times for him to come. The touch relays his orgasm straight into Cuthbert’s head, and he comes, too, pumping his hips erratically at the end and breathing heavily against Alain’s shoulder blade.

He pulls out of Alain’s body and out of his mind and leaves the bed, returning with a rag damp from the washbasin to wipe their bodies clean. They lie together side by side.

Unsurprisingly, Alain recovers first. Alone with Cuthbert’s naked body, his cock wants just one thing. 

Cuthbert sees him harden. “Up he comes,” he jokes. He pours the lubricant over his own fingers again and starts in on himself. Alain’s breath hitches; he had not expected this, but of course Cuthbert needs to learn how to prepare himself. 

Alain leans on his elbow and watches Cuthbert caress his own hole, watches one, two, three fingers disappear inside. He does not get hard. 

“Bert,” Alain sighs, “I never wanted you like this.”

“You do want me, though. It thrilled me once, before. Having you inside me while I was inside that girl, it pleased me to no end.” His cock expands a little. “But . . .”

“How much did you rely on my pleasure when you came just now?”

Cuthbert shrugs. “Impossible to say. I liked it, to be sure, and I was hard before we started. I’ll think of it when other men are fucking me. Maybe I’ll think about this, too. Feed me your pleasure if I don’t get hard. I want it to be good with you.”

“Alright.”

“You can touch me if you want,” he offers.

“I want. I want to make sure you’re not hurting, too.”

Cuthbert nods. Then he turns over on his front and raises his ass, bending down on his forearms instead of his hands.

Alain slicks his cock liberally and positions himself at Cuthbert’s entrance. He strokes his buttocks gently. Then he does what he has wanted to do ever since he learned what fucking was. He pushes his cock inside Cuthbert’s ass at the same moment that he slips into his mind. 

His mind is as hot as his body. He is in very little pain, but he is sore afraid. He cannot escape the reminder of Bracken Corbett breaking him open raw then forcing him to come in his wife’s mouth. 

“We’re going to make a new memory, Cuthbert,” Alain declares, “I love you, and I’m going to get out of your head so you can know for sure which feelings are your own.” Reluctantly, he pulls out of Cuthbert’s mind. 

Cuthbert’s breath hitches.

“Is this alright?” Alain asks him. He cannot see his face.

“Make me a memory, Alain.” He stretches, catlike, arching his back down towards the bed and pressing his ass against Alain. 

“I love you, Cuthbert Allgood,” Alain says again. He strokes Cuthbert’s lean back and thrusts inside him.

“I love you, too,” Cuthbert replies. Even if he had been touching him Alain might not be able to tell what kind of love he means. It does not matter.

“So good,” Alain moans. He gently slides his cock in and out, struggling to make this last. “Does it feel good for you? Be honest.”

“It does not feel bad,” Cuthbert replies, “I’ve always loved it when you were inside me.”

Alain moans deeply and almost comes right then and there. He never thought they’d say these things out loud. “I love it, too. I want to be inside you every chance I get. I love being inside you when other people are around, and they can’t tell. I love it even more when you hold my hand on East Tower Lawn.”

“We’ll do that more. Is it better than sex?”

“It’s different. I loved it when you fucked me.”

“I want to make you happy, too.”

“You do. You always do. I want to kiss you badly.”

“Badly? Then I’ll pass.” Cuthbert snickers breathily.

Alain rolls his eyes and thrusts some more. At least some part of Cuthbert is not completely miserable. The friction of his thrusts increases. It feels wonderful, but Alain, though he is very close, knows that he needs more lube or he’ll hurt Cuthbert. He pulls out gently and begins to wet Cuthbert’s open hole, but Cuthbert scoots out of his grasp and turns to face him. 

He takes the bottle from Alain’s hand and pushes gently against his breastbone. “Lie down on your back.”

Cuthbert crawls over him on his hands and knees, careful not to touch his cock. He hovers over Alain’s face and then leans down to kiss him. His lips are thin and chapped but somehow soft. There is fine stubble on his cheek. His tongue is warm and strong. 

Alain moans into his mouth. “Oh, thank you.”

Cuthbert does not stop. He kisses Alain in long, wet episodes and short, gentle pecks. At length, his slicked hand creeps around Alain’s hard cock. Then he rubs his own cock against it. He is finally hard. Alain groans loudly and calls out Cuthbert’s name.

“Mmm,” Cuthbert sighs against his lips, “This was a good idea you had. You can kiss me badly any day.”

Alain chuckles.

Cuthbert pulls away. “Just for a moment,” he assures him. He kneels over Alain’s newly slicked cock, lining it up with his hole.

“You don’t have to,” Alain tells him, silently begging him to impale himself and ride him hard, “I’m sure you have a working knowledge now.”

Cuthbert smiles. “How very noble. I can see you’re dying for it. Now, don’t fret. I promised you could fuck me. I want to try like this.” He lowers himself down on Alain’s cock, and his hot, slick body easily engulfs him. 

Alain groans. Cuthbert plants his hands on Alain’s strong pectorals and bends down for a kiss. Then he sits back up and fucks himself on Alain’s cock, bracing his weight against Alain’s chest. Pleasure consumes Alain, and Cuthbert grins at him.

“You like it,” Alain says with wonder, “You like getting me off. You jerked off in front of me in Hambry, and you let me feel you fuck that girl, and you like this because you’re making me feel even better than before.”

“Did you touch yourself when you felt me with her?” 

“Yes. I’ve never come so hard, except maybe with you inside me.”

Cuthbert grins. “Let’s set a record.” He takes hold of Alain’s hands and moves them to his hips, and Alain helps him ride him harder.

Alain is almost ready to come when Cuthbert stops. “Oh, Gan!” he cries, unable to thrust up.

Cuthbert’s pleasure at his power over Alain’s orgasm is evident on his face. “Would it please you if I got off, first?” he asks.

“You fucking tease!”

He laughs. “I have been teasing you for years. You love it.”

“I love you. Will you let me jerk you off?” 

“Maybe.” He places Alain’s hand on his cock and establishes a soft rhythm with his hips to make sure Alain stays stimulated and insane. Alain strokes him lovingly, gently at first, then harder and faster until he, too, is on the edge. Then he pulls away again, leaving Alain bereft.

“I want to finish it the other way,” he says, “So I remember how it felt when you came inside me from behind.” He rubs more lube about his entrance and offers himself to Alain.

Alain has little control left. He gets up on his knees as quickly as he can and jams his cock inside one, twice, and comes calling Cuthbert’s name. Then he eases Cuthbert up to lean back against chest and kisses his neck. He runs his fingers through his short and sweaty hair. “This is me. This is Alain Johns. You made me come, and now you’re going to come for me because I love you, and it will make me happy.”

Cuthbert moans and turns his head to kiss him sloppily from the side. Alain strokes his cock, and he comes just as Alain softens and slips out. Cuthbert is on him in an instant, turning again to face him and kissing him deeply like before. He lies back and pulls Alain down on top of him, and they kiss and kiss and kiss.

7

It does not happen again. Alain did not expect it to. Perhaps if things had been different they might eventually have become lovers in the normal way (or perhaps not), but Cuthbert’s body is ill used, and he is no longer interested in sex. It has become a chore. Sometimes he lets Alain kiss him, though. He doesn’t seem to get aroused, but he enjoys it. Sometimes Alain jerks off during or after while Cuthbert grins and watches. Mostly, they continue as before. 

The sexual proclivities of Gilead’s wealthy traitors are more varied than Alain would have expected. Many are sadistic like the Corbetts, and Cuthbert cynically develops tiered pricing - double the money if two people are involved, quadruple if they make him bleed, ten times the price if they leave a permanent mark. He offers these choices up front, and many are happy to pay. The money, Alain learns, he drops into the poor box at the Christian church. There are also men who simply want to be with a beautiful boy, men who had always preferred other men but had been afraid to act on their desires. These men are sometimes rough and perfunctory in their embarrassment, sometimes caring and gentle, begging Cuthbert to teach them how to love him sweetly. Sometimes they want him to fuck them instead. Alain is with him through them all; he never leaves his mind again. 

He's with him through the women, too: aging matriarchs, who miss the company of handsome men, the lonely wives of absent generals and businessmen, the unsatisfied wives of impotent old men. And, of course, the impotent old men themselves, who regard Cuthbert's youthful body as a substitute for what was once their own.

The more conspirators Alain uncovers, the longer Cuthbert's list of conquests grows. But Cuthbert stays out of the public eye, and even traitors don't discuss their sexual proclivities together, so no one realizes they have all been fucking the same boy. And no one recognizes him as Robert Allgood’s son: a gunslinger.


	6. Eighteen, in eighteen parts: I-VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Eighteen" is long and plotty and has been divided into three chapters. It also contains some upsetting content, the worst of which is in part 2.

1

For two long years Cuthbert whores himself for Gilead, and Alain betrays the traitors in their midst. The lanky youth becomes a lanky man, more chiseled but no less pretty than before. Alain grows stronger, trimmer, hairier; he grows a beard. He has Known since childhood that Gilead is doomed - he's seen the city burn a thousand times or more in dreams and visions - and, as the list of Farson’s followers grows longer, he can tell the end is nigh; Cuthbert's secret sacrifice is doomed to be in vain. 

Cuthbert most likely knows it, too. As he told his father, he is not a fool, and the intervening years have turned him grimmer and more cynical: colder, harder, more like Roland. He can still be friendly, loving, and kind hearted, but the long war and his role in it have taken a toll. 

Even Roland notices how hard he has become behind his easy smile. He doesn’t see Cuthbert separate his body from his mind and come back from a brutal fuck wearing a cynical smile, but he sees how easily he kills when they are called upon to fight and how little he seems bothered by it afterwards. 

“When they hanged Hax you were afraid to climb the gallows,” Roland remarks. A throng has gathered to observe the latest in a litany of executions that began when they were boys, and Roland stands tall at the forefront of the crowd with Cuthbert close behind his shoulder. A few feet away behind them, Alain thinks they are so close that they are touching, just like in his dream.

“I am no longer a boy,” Cuthbert replies, “His was the first death that ever I saw, and Hax was kind to me. What ounce of goodness lurks in them?” He gestures towards the gallows. Today they are hanging Bracken and Michaela Corbett. Still hoodless, they stand waiting for their fate. The motion of his gesture catches Michaela’s eye.

Roland’s musings continue: “There was a time I thought you might turn out too soft to bear the gun.”

Cuthbert laughs darkly. He is probably smiling. Both of them are looking straight ahead, watching the grim proceedings. “Have I disappointed you?”

“B! Oh B! It’s him!” Michaela shrieks. The executioner shoves a hood over her head. Alain thinks he hears the muffled scream of “whore!” Bracken Corbett’s fear-widened pupils spasm back and forth across the eager crowd until he recognizes Cuthbert. Then they still. He opens his mouth, but, before he speaks, the hood goes over his head, too. The last thing he sees is Cuthbert standing next to Steven Deschain’s son, both of them dressed in formal gunslinger attire. Alain imagines that Cuthbert is still smiling a dark smile.

“I don’t know what you mean,” says Roland.

The trap door drops. The crowd flinches collectively at the sound of the wood sliding away and the Corbetts’ necks catching sharply at the end of each respective noose. Then they cheer. Cuthbert does not cheer, but neither does he flinch.

2

But even this new, colder Cuthbert has his limits. Scarcely a week after he watches his first mark hang, he receives his next assignment: Armitage Spencer, an aged, retired military man thought to secretly be one of Farson’s generals, is rumored to be looking for a gilly boy.

“He has been on the streets and in the brothels, but he never finds a boy he likes,” Roland’s father finishes. 

“What makes you think he’ll like me better?” Cuthbert asks, a little of his old cheek creeping in around the formal impassivity he wears in Deschain’s presence now. 

“I reckon you’ve experience enough. I trust you will gain entrance to his house.”

Robert Allgood sits beside his dinh, red faced and glassy eyed, but his son only nods, bows, and departs. Alain follows suit and trails after.

When they are alone, and Cuthbert is changing into his costume for the mission, he laughs. “My stars, Alain! I anguished as a child that he disliked me so in spite of my clear love for Roland. If only I had known the path to earn his trust!”

Alain is glad their minds are not yet touching so that Cuthbert cannot see the vivid image that pops unbidden into his head: the beautiful, sweet boy he used to know down on his knees before his best friend’s harsh, judgmental father. “I hope that you are joking,” he mutters, “The thought of you bending before him makes me ill.”

“What, worse than what I’m actually doing?” Cuthbert looks up from where he is lacing up a pair of tight, black leather trousers and grins. Alain flushes and looks away. “Besides,” Cuthbert continues, “It isn’t his cock he’s so pleased to see me pleasing. Perhaps I could have gotten away with getting on my knees for Roland.”

“I think not,” Alain says sharply, “I’d wager that he thinks you do that now.”

Cuthbert has finished dressing, and he stills. Alain looks back at him. The night is chilly, and this outfit has a long suede jacket, well tailored to flatter his lean form. The leather trousers tuck into the tops of his boots, and the claspless coat hangs open to expose a bright blue, silken tunic. It is not as revealing as some of the costumes he has worn, but the cloth is very thin, and Cuthbert, thin himself, is chilled enough that his hard nipples are apparent through the fabric. By the time Alain’s eyes make it all the way up to his face he is wearing an amused smirk. “And what do you think?” He is not asking about his appearance.

“I’ve never been sure,” Alain says truthfully. 

Cuthbert smiles and him and chucks his chin. He is still beautiful and sweet. 

Something catches Cuthbert’s eye, and he steps suddenly past Alain, out of the dark alcove into the torchlit castle hall. “What say you, Father?” he calls, bright and mocking, “Would Roland like me better if I dressed like this?”

Alain rounds the corner after him. Sure enough, Robert Allgood is there. He looks like Alain feels. Probably, he overheard.

“Well?” Cuthbert prompts. He spreads his arms and twirls around, then leans seductively against the wall, his short hair showing off his long neck. He bats his eyelashes.

“I think he’d weep if he saw this,” Cuthbert’s father tells him.

“Oh father,” Cuthbert sighs in mock sympathy, “You do not know him very well. He’d put a bullet in my head.”

“Bert,” Alain whispers. He touches his friend’s elbow. 

To his surprise, Cuthbert opens up his mind. “And put me out of my misery,” he finishes silently to Alain alone. He allows Alain to steer him out of the castle and into the darkened street. 

It is a drizzly night, and, for a while, the rain and fresh air seem to wash away Cuthbert’s especially bitter mood. He breathes deeply and goes about his business in meditative silence as they weave their way across town to the address Deschain gave. By the time they get there, a fine sheen of mist makes Cuthbert’s skin sparkle, and his hair is slicked back black.

“I’d like to kiss you in the rain,” Alain says in his head. 

Cuthbert’s laughs. “Some other time.” He can see Spencer wandering up and down the street and slips out into the open.

As Cuthbert steps away, another tingle touches Alain’s mind. Not Spencer or anybody on the street - this person is farther away, and Alain feels their mind because the touch is drawn to it. Because they are ka-tet. It’s Jamie DeCurry. Roland is on a mission outside Gilead, but Jamie is not with him. Left to his own devices, their silent, observant friend has followed them, and there is nothing that Alain can do about it now. He pushes the tingle of Jamie’s presence into the back of his mind and concentrates on the mission. 

Cuthbert lounges against the wall of Spencer’s own house, hips thrust out and shoulders back so that the man can see how the thin, silky shirt adheres to his damp skin. “Word is you are impossible to please,” he calls softly as soon as Spencer is near enough to hear, “This is a grand house. I have come to try my luck.”

Armitage Spencer is a tall, slender old man, only a little bent, with stark white hair, cropped short, and long, spindly hands like dead and wrinkled spiders. His skin is pale and prominently veined. He is intrigued by Cuthbert and approaches him, boldly sliding a hand inside his jacket to caress his silk clad torso. “And what have you to offer that is different from the others?” he croons slimily into his ear. 

“Why, only myself.”

Spencer’s fingers find his cold-hardened nipple and tweak it, hard.

Cuthbert raises an eyebrow but lets his mouth fall open as though in pleasurable response to the pinch. “I’ll tell you this,” he tells Alain inside his head, “He’ll never win a girl or boy who’s not a gilly poking around like that.”

“How old are you, boy?” Spencer asks.

“Eighteen.” This is the truth. “But I’m still pretty.”

“That you are.” Spencer presses his nose into the hollow behind Cuthbert’s ear and inhales. “I was pretty, once.”

Alain supposes that he might have been, but he is not pretty now, nor charming. He can feel Cuthbert assessing the cruelty in his cold and pale eyes, wondering detachedly what he’ll be called upon to do. Spencer’s mouth latches onto his jaw, and Cuthbert says, “Inside, don’t you think?”

Spencer lets him in. Alain waits until he’s well distracted in another room, then picks the lock. The layout of the house is ideal. Spencer’s study is on the ground floor, and light from the oil lamps on the street filters in through the window. His bedroom is upstairs.

Alain begins his search as Cuthbert sucks on Spencer’s cock. The old man does not get hard, but he seems pleased enough to have him lave it with his tongue and suck it in and out of his mouth. He noses against his balls as well and sucks them for good measure. Although the soft cock is not large, Cuthbert has a go at deepthroating it, letting it dangle flacidly into his throat.

Spencer gives a creaky chuckle. “Oh, how I long to fuck you.”

Cuthbert smiles. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

“Stand up.”

Cuthbert complies. He is still fully clothed, and Spencer positions him in front of him so he is facing his canopied and curtained bed and begins to undress him from behind. He shucks off his jacket and peels off his damp, silk shirt. He runs his skeletal hands along Cuthbert’s young, strong chest. 

“Yes!” He thrusts impotently against his leather trousered ass. “I had a body like this once. How is your cock? I bet you’re not hard yet, pressed up against a wrinkled old man like me. I’m glad. I want to feel you harden in my hand.”

“You will,” Cuthbert assures him. He guides the old man’s hand to the laces of his trousers and sinks further still into the back of his own mind.

In his memory, Cuthbert is impaled on Alain’s cock, which throbs against the bump of nerves inside him. He is excited at the prospect that Alain likes this so much. Alain’s calloused hand is stroking his cock, but he plans to stop him before he can make him come. The present Cuthbert smiles in remembered pleasure and moans as Spencer jerks him to full hardness. 

The present Alain nearly botches picking the lock on Spencer’s desk. He stills his hand, breathes deeply, and forces his sudden arousal from his mind until he regains control of his body. All the while, Cuthbert - still a tease - is chuckling inside his head. Until he isn’t.

“Is that how it’s supposed to work?” a high, nervous voice cuts through Cuthbert’s fantasy, pulling his attention and Alain’s back toward Spencer’s bedroom.

Spencer squeezes the base of Cuthbert’s cock. “It is, my dear, come see.”

A pubescent girl, optimistically thirteen, emerges from the curtains of the bed. She is wearing a transparent nightgown, and Cuthbert can see her underdeveloped breasts and the sparseness of her pubic hair. His mind snaps fully to the present. He loses his erection. He almost loses his dinner. 

“What’s this?” he asks shakily.

“This is my wife, Elaine,” Spencer says with pride. He continues to pull at Cuthbert’s flaccid cock.

“Your wife!?” He slaps Spencer’s hand and yanks his trousers up.

Spencer laughs at him. “What? Are you telling me you’re one of those poor shits who can’t get it up for a woman?”

Cuthbert points. “That’s not a woman. That’s a child.”

Elaine pouts. “His doesn’t work either, does it?”

“Are you telling me you wanted me to fuck her?” Cuthbert says in disbelief.

“I am. And you’ll do it, too. If you want to leave here with your life.”

“I’ll come up there and kill him,” Alain offers.

Cuthbert stares from Spencer to the girl. He wants to kill him now with his bare hands himself. It’s likely that he could. As he deliberates, he asks Alain what he has found.

“Maps and battle plans with times and dates. We’ll be able to take them apart.”

“Not if Spencer is suspicious or dead,” Cuthbert thinks, resignedly. “Alright,” he says to the old man, “But I refuse to hurt her.”

“Pity,” Spencer whines, “Oh well. I’ll just hurt you instead. I have plenty of money to cover it.”

Cuthbert nods. He strips himself completely and steps closer to the girl. “You’ll be alright,” he tells her, and she smiles innocently.

In the end, Spencer commands him not to come inside her - he doesn’t want to risk his wife bearing a gilly’s bastard child. It is a mercy but a small one. When Spencer gives the word, Cuthbert pulls out, and the confused girl watches as her decrepit husband, fully dressed, defiles the pretty boy he bought to take her virginity by shoving the longstick she refused to use into his ass until he bleeds. Cuthbert does not object, nor does he retreat into his mind to dull this more familiar pain. He wants to suffer. It goes on for a long time, and he is unable to come.

“What good are you?” Spencer spits at him, “You fucked her sweetly, and you bled sweetly, but I’ll not pay you if you refuse to come. Four times nothing is nothing, useless whore.” He throws him out.

Under the Black Bridge, Cuthbert vomits into the Gyl and sobs in Alain’s arms. When he can cry no more, he dunks his head in the stream and marches back to see Deschain without changing his clothes, which he has never done before. The other elders are all there already, waiting, and their eyes fly to his bright blue shirt, red eyes, wild hair, and over-pale skin. He looks so whorish and so thoroughly debauched that they continue to stare at him throughout Alain’s account.

“Steven Deschain,” says Cuthbert when his friend has finished speaking, “This is the last. I will not do it anymore.”

“Cuthbert Allgood, hear me very well,” Deschain replies, “That is not your choice to make. With these maps and plans, we’ll route the foe next time we meet. We cannot stop until he is eliminated.”

“Spencer will not have me back, if that’s what you’re implying. I failed to satisfy him in the end.”

“More’s the pity, but there are others still.”

Cuthbert covers his face with his hands for a moment, then combs his fingers through his still damp hair. Suddenly, he looks very composed. “You’ll burn in hell for this,” he says, “and so will I.” Much like the first time, nearly two years before, he turns and leaves without permission.

3

For over a month, Alain wonders how much Jamie saw and whether he will act upon his knowledge. But Jamie is as quiet and closed off as ever; his behavior does not change, and Alain begins to wonder, too, whether the tingle of his presence might have been imagined or coincidental. He wonders about Jamie for weeks until, one day, the three of them are practicing on the archery range, and Roland comes to summon Jamie to a meeting with his father.

All morning, Cuthbert had joked amiably with Jamie and Alain - and Roland, too, when he arrived. Now, he shoots in foul and fiery silence. His aim is fast and true even with this less favored weapon, but his expression is dark and hard. Alain has no need to touch him to know why.

“We have not been summoned yet. It might not be what you think.” His reassurances are empty.

Cuthbert meets his eyes and shows rather than tells him what he thinks. He drops his bow, draws his slingshot, and fires a shot in the direction of the target. The little ball leaves the slingshot at deadly velocity but droops depressingly long before it has a chance to reach its far too distant mark. He opens his mouth and widens his eyes in mock surprise. Alain laughs in spite of himself, and he is gratified to see that Cuthbert's lips twitch up as well before he strides towards the target, slinging as he goes, until he is close enough to hit it. Now, every shot strikes true.

By the time their friends return, Cuthbert has settled his ill mood into a softer underlying gloom and is making a half hearted attempt to entertain them both by asking Alain to help him find his fallen balls and making a show of bending over to retrieve them. The game is in poor taste, but Alain can feel Cuthbert's dark amusement at Alain's irrepressible arousal at the sight in spite of what he will almost certainly be called upon to do once Roland and Jamie are sent away on whatever mission Steven Deschain has in mind.

Alain is so absorbed by Cuthbert's tease that he almost misses Roland's return.

“Fitting,” Roland says, and Cuthbert stands up suddenly, not, Alain Knows, because he did not hear him approach, but because of the possible implications of what he had said.

“He can't can't can't can't know,” Alain hears his usually articulate friend stutter in his head. In real life, Cuthbert smiles crookedly, cocks his head to match, and drawls, “Do tell.”

“You are going on a mission to the Southern Territories - you and Jamie DeCurry.”

“I am?” Cuthbert does not bother to hide his surprise, and Alain hears something strange and foreign in his voice, feels it begin cautiously to take root in the far depths of his mind: hope. “What was fitting, then?”

“Your slingshot,” Roland explains, “The farming villages to the South are vulnerable to Farson’s forces, and my father believes that he may strike there soon. You and Jamie are to travel there as soon as possible to arm and train the villagers against such an attack and keep them loyal to the city. The weapons will be rudimentary - bows and slingshots, pitchforks, knives.”

Cuthbert takes a moment to look at Jamie, who leans stiffly against the back wall of the range. He meets his eyes before returning his attention to his dinh. “I accept, of course,” he says with his usual easy smile, “But tell me true - I was not originally intended for this mission.”

“Say true. It was an oversight. Jamie is an obvious choice - he has long favored the bow - but my father had intended the mission to be mine. However, Jamie said, and I agreed with him, that you would be a better choice.”

Cuthbert’s thin lips spread into a smile, which he points at Jamie. “You said as much to Steven Deschain, did you, my friend?”

Jamie spares him a brief, answering smile and a slight bob of his head before looking away, apparently signaling Roland to continue. He is not a man of many words.

Roland is speaking, his eyes locked on Cuthbert as he tells the story of silent Jamie’s daring speech with amusement mixed with admiration, but Alain does not need to listen. Jamie’s eyes, averted from their conversation, have lit upon his own. Flint hard pupils stab at him from pale irises, and Alain can pull the memory of the exchange from the forefront of Jamie’s mind as easily as if he had handed him the account described on paper:

Deschain outlining the mission. Roland nodding, then turning to Jamie to make sure he understands. Jamie forcing himself to speak.

“Sai,” he had said softly, his voice scratchy from lack of use, “You honor me. But it would be an opportunity missed if you did not send Cuthbert Allgood, too.”

Alain feels Jamie’s remembered satisfaction and relief as the idea took root in Roland’s head.

“You are right, Jamie DeCurry,” Roland had said. Then, “Father, Cuthbert’s skill with what you call the rudimentary weapons far outpaces mine. He nearly matches Jamie with a bow, and I have seen him kill grown men on horseback with his slingshot.”

Deschain had frowned. “I have other work for him,” he grumbled, “Your . . . fondness of him notwithstanding, that boy is far too frivolous to be trusted with a delicate diplomatic mission, even to the common villages.”

Roland had frowned back and had not answered right away, so Jamie had been compelled, reluctantly, to speak again. “Forgive me, sai, I disagree. I am a poor speaker. I know I will need help to train these people and to win them to our side. Roland, you command well, and, as a figurehead, you give the mission more import, but Cuthbert’s friendly manner will win favor with the simple folk.” Although he had been speaking slowly, his heart had raced and his throat had threatened to close up. He spoke rarely enough among his friends, who did not judge his awkwardness or his accustomed silence, but to contradict his commander . . . he had been driven by determination and disgust. 

A vision flashes in Alain’s mind - from a great distance he sees Cuthbert, pale as lifeless porcelain in the moonlit drizzle, as he submits to Spencer’s wandering hands in the street before his house, and then, still porcelain but fractured, breaking, as he sobs in Alain’s arms beneath the bridge. It hits him like a bullet, and he staggers slightly, his heart constricting around an imaginary wound. He makes an effort to hold Jamie’s gaze, to show him the respect and gratitude that he deserves. Jamie closes up his mind until Alain can feel only the hum of his presence as part of their ka-tet, and his own mind wakes up to the present.

“As a figurehead,” Roland is repeating for Cuthbert’s amusement. 

Cuthbert laughs. “He’s right, of course. Have I the time to commission your likeness in wood or soap to fill your role in your absence?”

Roland fights his smile and wins. “No. You and Jamie must go now and gather maps and weapons. Leave by dawn. If possible, tonight.”

Cuthbert nods, holding the weight of the assignment in his eyes although he is still smiling. “You will not come in person, then?”

“I would fain have all four of us, ka-tet. And that will come. You will prove yourself, and Jamie, too, and I will have an army then. When the time comes, I will lead it, and you will be my lieutenant. Today, you will go in my stead. You are my man to send.”

“I am your man,” Cuthbert repeats. He steps close to Roland and, instead of embracing him as is his custom, he kneels and kisses his hand (“On my knees I beg you . . .”). He rises and nods at Roland, Alain, and, finally, Jamie, who peels himself off the wall and follows his ka-mate away from the range. 

Alain thinks of a younger Cuthbert sitting naked on a wooden floor. “I would do anything for him,” he’d said. Is that what he has done? Is he whoring himself for Gilead to keep the city strong for Roland? Is he submitting silently to Steven Deschain’s humiliation so that Roland’s disenchantment with the father he still loves will never be complete? And what if Roland had asked him to do the same? Would he have obeyed without compunction simply because it was Roland who had asked? Or would it have broken him completely? Would Roland really put a bullet in his head if he found out what he was doing every time his dinh - his dearest friend - left town? 

And what of Jamie? Alain has never told Cuthbert they were seen, could not bring himself to contribute to his melancholy lest that knowledge be the chisel that would tap the fatal tap against the cracking porcelain Jamie had imagined in his over-pale face. Shall he let him suppose he has been saved this time by chance in spite of all his scorn for ka? Or would it be better to know he has a hidden ally, one that Deschain does not so far suspect? Alain resolves to give credit where credit is due.

“Jamie knows,” he tells the departing Cuthbert in his head, “He followed us last time. I felt him there, but I did not want to trouble you. Then he did nothing, and I wondered if I had imagined it. But I did not. Jamie knows, and he is helping you on purpose.”

Alain does not dare wait for Cuthbert’s answer. He takes the cowardly way out, shuts down the connection, and feels only the distant hums of the other three members of his ka-tet.

4

The next day he does try to reach out for Cuthbert as he sits alone on East Tower Lawn, but he is too far away already for Alain to touch him properly. Alone, he leans against the cold stone wall and stares out at the Bergher Forest, green and friendly in the sunshine.

Roland finds him there. Alain looks up to see him rounding the precarious ledge with practiced ease. At eighteen, Roland is the tallest person Alain knows, and he towers above him, seated as he is upon the grass. 

“I looked four other places first,” Roland admits. He sits and rolls himself a cigarette. “Then I realized I had been a fool. I miss him, too.”

Alain snorts softly. “It is funny that I’ve never seen you here before. I know this is your spot together.”

Roland looks at him hard: blue eyes vivid in the shadow of the tower, cigarette dangling from his bottom lip. For a moment, features slack in his surprise, he reminds Alain how very young they all still are. Then he smiles a little, and crinkles form around his eyes. Sitting there upon the ground, he looks much as he does in Alain’s dream. They have a few years left, he thinks. He hopes. 

“Is that what Cuthbert told you?” Roland asks at last.

“Once, under hypnosis.”

That earns him an eyebrow raise. How alike his two friends can be, so close since they were babes. “He brought you here to test him,” Roland reasons, “to test if he was safe.”

Alain nods.

Roland looks out at the forest and smokes. “This is Cuthbert’s place,” he says and offers his cigarette to Alain, who takes a long drag. “I do not come unless I am invited,” Roland continues. “I have not been here in a long time.”

Alain digests this.

“Are you touching him now?” Roland asks.

Alain shakes his head and passes the cigarette back. Like Roland, Alain smokes often, but Cuthbert rarely does, saving the activity for after battles when he can smell his own blood on his skin and the blood of his foes in his hair. He says he does not want to grow accustomed to the burn. “He is too far. I can still feel him, though. He lives.”

Roland nods.

“I can feel Jamie, too,” Alain adds belatedly, “and you. We are ka-tet.”

“We are.” He passes the cigarette back to Alain. It’s scarce more than a nub, now, and Alain smokes the last of it. He’s glad to feel the calming drug slide through his lungs and veins when Roland speaks again: “I have given him my mission; I will be taking his.”

Now it is Alain’s turn to stare.

“His mission with you,” Roland prompts, “I know my father has you spying, that you found the plans for the last battle. Did you think that I did not?”

Alain shrugs. “We were sworn to secrecy,” he hedges.

Roland frowns. “I guessed as much . . . I guessed as much and do not like it. My father is less clever than he likes to think, or else I am less dull. Always he denies me Cuthbert’s company or yours upon my missions outside Gilead, declaring he has other work for you. Always, upon my return, new intelligence appears to direct our actions. Why should your work be hidden from me thus?”

“Cuthbert hides much from everyone,” he hedges further.

“Even from you?”

“Even and especially from me,” Alain replies with only a trace of bitterness. Evasive as his dear friend is, he is proud that Cuthbert’s walls remain intact through all that he has undergone.

“Especially from you?” Roland muses, “But are you not his lover?”

Alain gapes. “Is he not yours?” he answers back, then forges on before Roland can tell him the decisive truth: “As you have guessed, he lets me see inside his mind, to touch him a great deal. He is quite adept at hiding what he does not want to share. It matters not.”

“Indeed it does not,” Roland agrees sharply, “this is my father’s business, not my friend’s.”

“Say true,” Alain whispers, feeling ill. “Perhaps,” he reasons, half truthfully, “Your father kept it secret for your sake so that you could not be implicated were we caught.”

“Perhaps. You and Cuthbert are rarely in the public eye - I presume by his design. Your theory is conceivable. And yet, perhaps he regrets giving me his guns and wants to limit what I know, which men I may command.”

“I do not Know.”

“Tonight I will take Cuthbert’s place and end this fool charade. For love of me or love of power my father’s deception has gone on long enough.”

“Have you told your father this already?”

“I have. He will await us after dinner. Come and eat.”

Alain has little appetite. In the dining hall he lifts a bite of turkey to his mouth, then lays it down again, still on his fork.

Roland prods him. “Why so nervous?” he asks softly so that only Alain can hear, “I know you would prefer his company, but surely I am quick and quiet as our absent friend.”

Alain nods and raises his fork to his mouth again.

“If not as comely,” Roland adds. 

Alain drops his fork. He covers his mouth and tries not to be sick. It is bothersome enough that Roland’s slow wit has finally caught up with the correct conclusion about Alain’s feelings for Cuthbert, but his tease, aimed harmlessly in jest, has hit by accident so near the fatal mark. Their fathers are all sitting together at the other end of the dining hall, and Alain catches Robert Allgood’s eye.

Roland seems to mistake Alain’s reaction for embarrassment. “I understand,” he says, misunderstanding, “That is not talk for company. I see no shame in it, but . . .”

Alain looks back at him and nods sharply to cut him off. “My thanks,” he manages. He takes a long swallow of mead and forces his tasteless dinner down his throat. A full stomach might turn on him, but he can’t afford to be light headed.

When they are finished, Alain follows Roland to the meeting hall and listens to the Dinh of Gilead describe their mission. 

“Sabina Kottle blames the gunslingers and Gilead for the death of her son, Arthur, who joined our army gladly even before he was conscripted. The boy was a fool, jealous that he was not born to the gun, and he got himself killed quickly. Since that time, sources suggest she has been using her connections in the silk trade to funnel money and supplies to Farson’s rebels. The lady is not young, and her hearing has been better. You will wait until the deepest part of the night and obtain what evidence you can while she is sleeping.”

Roland nods and bows and turns to leave, but Alain lingers, staring. He looks each elder present in the eye one at a time - Vannay, Johns, Allgood, Deschain - and feels his fair skin flush in rage. He had guessed what to expect with Roland here instead of Cuthbert, but, still, he fails to check the physicality of his reaction. 

Behind him, Roland beckons, “Come on, then!”

“In hell,” Alain mouths at Steven Deschain, echoing Cuthbert’s last appearance in this room. He follows Roland out into the night.

It is almost tragic how everything goes off without a hitch. They dally in the streets until well after midnight and then sneak to the address they have been given. Alain picks the lock, and they pass silently inside. The house is dark, but they find the study easily. Silently, they sort through the records of the Kottle silk trade until they can identify glaring discrepancies. All the while, Alain keeps his mind open and receptive to the touch. Sabina Kottle never stirs, nor do her servants (if she has them). When the information has been memorized and immaculately replaced, they wait by the front door until Alain Knows that the street is clear then exit silently as they arrived. They return to Roland’s father and recite the information; then, they go home to their beds. Alain wraps his mind around the faraway buzz of Cuthbert’s living brain and cries himself to sleep.

5

Cuthbert returns alone. Alain feels him approach the city shortly before he arrives. Touchblind, he can’t project his mind like Alain can, but it seems to be reaching out to find him anyway. The pleasure as their consciousnesses join is almost overwhelming, and Alain, blessedly alone when it happens, pulls himself off with only a few strokes to the ripples of Cuthbert’s laughter in his head. 

“Sweet . . .” he gasps across the distance between them, “how long?”

“I reckon that was record fast,” Cuthbert jokes. 

Alain can feel his friend’s arousal, which is rare. He doesn’t bother to hide his hope that it will last long enough for him to have a chance to make him come.

Cuthbert laughs again. “I hope so, too. Less than twenty minutes now, I’d wager. Business first, of course.”

“Good. We’ll meet you by the stables.” Alain removes the greater part of his mind from the connection and lets it slip back behind his present thoughts. He scans the city for Roland, whom he finds in Vannay’s library, studying maps of the Silk Road that runs South from Gilead, then East toward the sea. 

Alain rushes there to meet him, hoping that the physical exertion will eclipse any flush that still remains from his indulgence. Intending no surprise, he clomps hurriedly up the stairs, reminding himself of his old derisive nickname, and stands sweating in the library door. 

Roland turns to him at once, and Alain beckons him with a jerk of his head. 

“Do not put these away yet, Vannay,” Roland commands, sweeping his long hands over the spread of old and curling maps, “I will return with company.”

Vannay nods at Roland. Then, when his former pupil’s back is turned, his dark eyes bore into Alain. His mind is not as tightly closed as sometimes, and Alain can feel him guess at what he’s doing with the touch. He meets his gaze unflinchingly. He’ll have his answer when Roland returns with Cuthbert. 

Together, Alain and his dinh descend the stairs and cross the castle grounds to the stables. A moment later, Cuthbert rides up, breathless, on an aging Glue Boy. He swings lightly from his steed before the horse comes to a stop; then, he thumps him on the side and hands him over to a limping stable boy only a year or so their junior and presses a gold coin into the lame lad’s scummy hand.

The boy’s jaw drops open, and he nearly trips over his own malformed feet in his attempt to bow and lead the horse away at the same time. Cuthbert smiles and bows back, flourishing his hat behind him. The boy giggles and rearranges his feet. “Say thankya,” he mumbles, then disappears with Cuthbert’s horse.

Cuthbert punches the inside of his hat, and dust puffs off it in a shallow plume. His face is dirty, too, and a line of clean but sweaty skin points out exactly where the hat had sat upon his forehead. He has been gone for almost three weeks; his dark hair is longer than Alain has seen it in some time, and there is visible stubble on his cheeks. He looks more alive than Alain has seen him in years.

Horse taken care of, he slings his hat around his neck, letting it dangle down his back on its long leather thong, and bows shallowly to Roland, fist at his forehead. Roland returns the gesture as he should - his bow is little more than a nod; he stands above his friend - then he tugs Cuthbert to him in the tight embrace of old, heedless of the spreading dust. They hold each other for a long moment until Roland pulls away and asks him for his news. 

Cuthbert clears his throat, spits dust, and begins: “The Southern Territories are with us, more or less. A hundred folk or more, including at least thirty women, say that they will fight, and, although untrained, they are hard working people. They are frightened, but they are not squeamish, and they are strong. Many are already skilled with scythes and other farmers’ tools that could be used at weapons, but Jamie’s great hope is that, with bows, we may be able to fortify a position on the road and put off hand to hand combat for some time.” As he speaks, Cuthbert smiles briefly at Alain and clasps him by the wrist in greeting. Alain returns the grasp and hopes that Roland will allow them time alone before the day is through.

“That is a good start,” Roland says, “Jamie remains to train and fortify?” 

“He does. There is a bridge over the Gyl . . .”

Roland stops him. “Show me.”

On the way to the library, Cuthbert says, “I came back to give you my report and receive your instruction. The people there are glad of your attention. They call you ‘Prince.’ Even with the taxes and conscription they would rather peace and Gilead’s protection than Farson’s revolution. But not every man, of course. There is no way to be certain how many fled when Jamie and I arrived, but our friends there mentioned at least five who were conspicuously missing. It is likely that Farson knows of our efforts by now. We cannot know how that might change his plans.”

Roland nods gravely. “Take a day or two to rest and glean what you can here, and then go back. Alain and I will join you when we can.”

Cuthbert’s grin lights up his face. Alain is sure his own must echo it.

In the library, Vannay gives Cuthbert’s unshaven, dusty visage a disapproving look, but he yields silently when Roland ushers Cuthbert over to the maps.

“Our camp is here,” says Cuthbert, hovering his dirty finger just above the ancient parchment carefully, “This map is old. The one we took with us was scarcely better. This village flooded out some fifteen years ago, and its inhabitants live here and here - the farmhouses are spread out. Jamie and I think this bridge here is the point to hold, but, besides the bridge itself, only this mill offers existing fortification. That building is good, strong brick with a flat, accessible roof that has a little decorative safety wall that’s almost like a battlement. It will take work to make it into a truly defensible position, but these people have families and livelihoods to protect, and they are willing to help us try.”

“You spoke of women,” Roland says as Cuthbert strolls around the table, examining the series of maps, “Is that wise?”

“If they are strong and willing, I say yes. There is no safe place to hide them if our defenses break - why should we not teach them to fight? This is the Silk Road,” Cuthbert observes, changing the subject.

“Yes,” Roland agrees, “I took your part and went out with Alain. We found among the Kottle papers much incriminating evidence suggesting that the Silk Road and its merchants have become Farson’s supply line.”

Cuthbert looks at the maps some more, his dark eyes hopping from chart to chart as his nimble mind travels out along the road, past the place with which he has become familiar, through the mountains, all the way to the sea. “And how was that?” he murmurs, seemingly distracted, “Did you get in and out without disaster, clumsy as you are?”

Roland takes the bait. “Do you refer to me or him?” he gestures to Alain.

“To both of you, you oafs. In my mind you stumble into desks and knock priceless vases on the floor, and the lady of the house comes down in her nightie to chase you with a broom. How you survived without me I shall never know.”

Alain snorts a laugh. His eyes seek out Vannay and find him in the shadows. Alain is well impressed with Cuthbert’s feint, but, unbeknownst to Roland, a dark undercurrent runs beneath the conversation now. “We managed well enough,” he says as lightly as he can, “What was it you said, Roland? That you could be as quick and silent as our Bert, but not as comely?” 

Vannay looks away. Alain sees him take a deep breath and begin slowly to approach, and his last hopes for a moment of mutual pleasure with Cuthbert sink and die.

Oblivious, Cuthbert laughs. “Did you say that? Perhaps it is I who should be memorialized in soap to keep you company while I am gone.”

“There will be no time for frippery,” Vannay interrupts, emerging from the shadows and fulfilling Alain’s dread, “Sai Deschain will want your report soon, and I expect he’ll have another mission for you ere you go back to the South.”

Cuthbert turns his hard, gunslinger eyes on his old teacher. “Shame,” he says, pausing long enough to let Vannay feel the full impact of the word, “But I suppose there’s other uses for my soap. I’ll get cleaned up, then, and present myself when I’m as pretty as a picture.” He bows once again to Roland and departs.

Roland nods at Cuthbert’s back and returns to his maps. Alain slumps uselessly into a chair.

“You may go with him if you like,” Roland offers, “I know that this is not one of your strengths.”

Alain scoffs. “And it is yours? I’m sure I’ll see him soon enough.” He glances in Vannay’s direction.

“Not one of my strengths, say true,” Roland admits, “But I am learning. If Bert were here, or Jamie . . . but they have other business to attend to. I’ll bring a plan with me when I go South, and they will help refine it.” He runs his finger over the places that Cuthbert had identified. Then, to Alain’s surprise, he speaks again: “I understand why you were nervous not to have him with you. I know how clever he can be - surely he spots a false record or a potential connection to Farson much more quickly than you or I. I am loathe to keep him from his work, but the time for spies and plans is nearly done.”

Alain might cry if he stays here. “Do not be,” he says sharply, “Cuthbert is your man and not your father’s. Send him where you will.” He rises.

“Going to join him after all?”

“To wish him well, say true. We have not talked much yet.”

Roland nods and returns to his maps.

Their dinh knowing the half truth about their missions may be the worse thing yet, and, when he is out of sight and hearing Alain finds that tears do fall at the thought of Roland’s logical but incorrect guess why Cuthbert is so valued as a spy. He makes himself sick imagining all those missions running by so smooth and fast with Cuthbert pointing out the documents they need and telling Alain why they are important in his head. He imagines their pride, their smiling success. Alain has never once been proud of what he has uncovered. Has he saved lives in Gilead or other towns? He sees only the violence of the battles and the hangings and the cracks and chips in Cuthbert’s soul. The spiral staircase down from the library contributes to his growing nausea, and he vomits underneath a hedge as soon as he stumbles out into the open air.

6

By the time Alain finds Cuthbert in the bath house, he has composed himself a little. On the way, he chewed some mint that he found growing rampant in the shadow of the wall behind the kitchens, and it has settled his stomach and freshened his breath. He hopes to get a kiss, at least, but, even though the connection that opened as Cuthbert approached Gilead still tingles in the back of his mind, he does not know what to expect. He certainly does not expect this:

Cuthbert unlocks the door to a private bathing room, naked, half hard, and dripping wet, and closes and locks it once again behind him. He presses Alain up against the heavy door and kisses him, spreading damp across his entire front.

“Mmm, mint,” he sighs into his mouth, “I should have thought of that.” He pushes his tongue deep into Alain’s mouth to taste some more.

Alain’s brain shuts down. Without considering the consequences, he helps Cuthbert shuck off his clothes and lets him lead him over to the bath. The tub is not really big enough for two grown men, but Cuthbert manages to fold himself around Alain in such a way that they both fit. Alain can feel him everywhere - his ass resting in Alain’s lap, his hard cock bobbing against his stomach, his long legs folded up over his chest and wrapped around his neck, his long, slim fingers sliding soap up his back, down his legs, into the crack of his ass. Alain moans, pressing back against the fingers until one slips just inside, and Cuthbert’s other, slender hand comes up and clamps over his mouth. 

Cuthbert is grinning. His dark eyes sparkle. It occurs to Alain, as his thoughts come slowly back to him, that he has trimmed his hair and shaved already. He opens his mouth behind Cuthbert’s palm and, instead of trying to speak, he runs his tongue along it and then coaxes two of Cuthbert’s fingers inside. Cuthbert’s grin falls away, and his eyes widen in unexpected pleasure. He makes a clicking sound as he swallows, choking back his own moan. Alain remembers Cuthbert’s exclamation (“Really?”) at Alain’s pleasure at being fingered nearly two years ago now, and he pulls the fingers out of his mouth so he can throw it back at him in jest.

“Really?” Alain whispers, mocking, smiling.

Cuthbert nods. His own mouth is too slack with arousal and surprise to smile. “I didn’t know,” he whispers back.

“Let me,” Alain begs. 

He guides the fingers back into his mouth and pushes gently on Cuthbert’s chest until he leans back and relaxes, floating his upper body above Alain’s folded knees. He can’t reach Alain’s hole anymore, so he brings that hand up to clutch, white knuckled, at the lip of the tub while his own ass rises off of Alain’s lap to sit against his belly. The tip of his hard cock pokes out of the bathwater as it ripples with his movement. Alain takes hold of it, slicking it with soap. Cuthbert bites his lip, then opens his mouth in a silent groan and arches his back. Behind Alain, his crossed legs tense. He is already close. Alain sucks and licks his fingers and pulls at his soapy cock. He comes in a convulsion that begins in the middle of the tub, where his hips thrust spasmodically into Alain’s eager fist and send a rippling wave out over the lip of the bath in answer to his pleasure. His fingers slip from Alain’s mouth, and he lets his body float back until his head rests on the opposite end of the tub, staring up at the ceiling, and his chilly feet tuck into Alain’s sides.

“That was beautiful,” Alain murmurs in awe.

Cuthbert folds at the middle so he is float-sitting on Alain’s feet and he can bend his neck to look directly at him. “Say true?” he whispers, almost shyly. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. When he opens them again the sparkle is gone, and his voice is almost as hard as his eyes. “I have waited almost two years to want it, and now they are going to take it away from me again. Would you like to fuck me?”

His foul mood is not his fault, so Alain resists the urge to strike him. Barely. Cuthbert is on the verge of breaking - he can feel it in the touch - and their ka-tet will break with him if he does. Alain imagines the satisfying crack his wet palm would make if he smacked it against Cuthbert’s equally wet cheek and wonders whether such a blow would shove the slipping fragment of his soul back into place or smash him all to pieces. Rather than take the risk, Alain scrubs his own face clean and stands abruptly, spilling Cuthbert off him as he climbs out of the tub.

Cuthbert stares after him, wide eyed.

There is only one towel, and Alain uses it, not caring that Cuthbert will have to make do with a wet one when he gets out himself. He should have thought of that before he pulled Alain in with him and said those terrible things.

“I don’t understand. I don’t know what is terrible. You’ve always wanted me.” Cuthbert says, quietly, to his back. 

In his anger, Alain had forgotten they were still linked by the touch. How many of his thoughts just now had been open to Cuthbert’s confused mind? Had he felt him think of him as broken? Had he known his urge to strike his face? Or did he only catch the last bit, which he had thought more directly at him (“You should have thought of that . . .”) At least as angry at himself now as he is at Cuthbert, he puts an end to the mental link.

Cuthbert gasps audibly. He gets out of the tub and does not look at Alain. Alain offers him the towel, but still he does not look. With his back turned, he attempts to struggle into his clothes without drying off.

“My God,” Alain murmurs, “you don’t.”

Cuthbert ignores him. He has managed to pull his trousers all the way up and is reaching for his tunic.

Alain walks up behind him. “Bert,” he prompts softly. He reaches out to touch him with his hand.

Cuthbert must feel the heat of his approaching fingers because he spins around abruptly just before they touch his skin. For a moment, Alain thinks his eyes are bright with unshed tears, but then, as Alain watches, the heat of his emotion disappears and is replaced with gunslinger hardness.

Alain shivers.

Cuthbert raises an eyebrow at him. “Put some clothes on, then.” He snatches the towel from Alain’s grasp and dries his own bare chest, face, feet, and hair. Then he drops it on the floor and turns to reach for his tunic once again.

Alain kneels to pick up the towel. He looks up at his friend. “Bert,” he says again. He brushes his knee gently with his knuckle.

“Don’t touch me,” Cuthbert commands, and the double meaning is clear. Alain knows if he tries to slip inside his mind he’ll find it shut up tight. He imagines himself running round and round that imaginary freestanding East Tower, looking for a way inside as the lip of the motte grows thinner and thinner with each lap. To keep himself from falling, Alain would have to jam his fingers in a chink and force Cuthbert to open up a door . . . he remembers Cuthbert in the moonlight, his nose bleeding and his sclera full of blood. He remembers Cuthbert’s missing eye as he sits with Roland in the future, laughing at his imminent demise. For the first time, the thought of that dream is heartening - their ka-tet will not break yet.

Alain makes a show of removing his hand from Cuthbert’s knee, hardens his own eyes and stands. Cuthbert is only a couple of inches taller, and their eyes meet almost on the level. Alain nods gravely to acknowledge Cuthbert’s request and counters with, “Don’t make me one of them.” He hopes it will help Cuthbert understand.

7

Alain does not see Cuthbert again until Roland fetches him and sends him to his father’s meeting hall. Cuthbert is already there - he was there with Roland giving a report on their progress and plans in the Southern Territories - and, in the absence of his direct dinh, he has helped himself to a seat. His slumped sprawl is hardly appropriate for a meeting with the elders, but they have all been waiting for Roland to find Alain, and Cuthbert clearly no longer cares how he appears before this group. How could he sink any lower in their estimation? When Alain walks in he looks up only briefly from his contemplation of his fingernails and does not rise. Alain stares at him until Deschain speaks, summarizing information Cuthbert has already heard.

“My son’s plan for the villages to the South is sound,” he announces, giving no credit to Cuthbert or Jamie, “He departs to oversee the venture as we speak. Both of you will follow on the morrow, after you complete your business here.” He looks pointedly at Cuthbert, who does rise now only to regard him blankly, eyes unreadable and hard, as he receives the details of his next humiliation and waits to be dismissed.

The mark is a man, Maximilian Mortimer. He is approaching middle age but fair and rather handsome, and he does not seem especially unpleasant. Alain can only guess what they are doing - this is the first and only mission where Cuthbert has not allowed him in his head - but he can hear the murmur of their voices in the other room. Once, Cuthbert even laughs (Alain can tell it does not ring quite true, but Mortimer is probably deceived). After that, Alain does not hear his voice for quite some time - only Mortimer’s delighted moans - and he can guess what he is up to. He does not attempt to touch Mortimer, choosing to trust Cuthbert to reach out to him if he is in need of aid. Afterwards, they meet under the Black Bridge, and Cuthbert changes back into his ordinary clothes. He follows Alain back to the meeting hall and listens to him give his report. 

“Good night,” he says when they are done, “At dawn, I’ll meet you at the stables, and we’ll ride.” 

He turns his back and walks briskly toward the East Tower without a hitch in his step. Alain wonders whether Mortimer declined to fuck him or whether he was simply more considerate than many. Perhaps he’d wanted it the other way around. Shamefully, Alain regrets not taking Cuthbert’s offer. He might never have such a chance again.


	7. Eighteen, in eighteen parts: VIII-XIV

8

Their days in the Southern Territories are both like and unlike that time four years ago in Mejis: Again Cuthbert is angry and closed off, and again Roland is oblivious. This time, however, Cuthbert takes care to keep him that way. 

On the other hand, Jamie, who was not with them in Mejis, notices immediately. “You’ve done good work here,” he says when they arrive, clasping Cuthbert’s fine boned wrist, “I am glad to have you back.” Jamie, who rarely says more than he must, does not require the touch to give his words more meaning. His speech is undeniably sincere, but his gaze is hard, and his grip is firm when he tugs Cuthbert close to him until their foreheads touch. Alain can almost hear him say, “I’m sorry you are hurting, but don’t you dare fuck this up.”

And Cuthbert hasn’t. Roland has brought all of the Silk Road maps from Vannay’s library, and Cuthbert spends hours by lamplight helping Jamie bring them up to date. With easy charm, he gleans from the villagers their knowledge of the changes in the landscape and the towns and translates their unlearned descriptions into the language of numbers and topographic lines that Jamie better understands. Then he interprets Jamie’s maps for Roland. By day, he surveys the fortifications at the bridge where Jamie has begun the construction of rudimentary ramparts near the river and around the mill. He helps to supervise the training of their meager troops, offering encouragement and correction. Again, he charms them; they long for his approval and improve. He defers to Roland blatantly in public, so the farmer army longs for his approval, too. 

Alain feels rather useless. He helps Cuthbert and Jamie with the training and runs errands for Roland, but he has no call to use his “real talent” here. He says as much when the four of them meet for supper on the evening of his third day in the camp.

Roland considers. “Can you tell when they are coming?”

Alain shrugs. “Barely. I have my mind looking for them all the time, but I have ten miles accuracy at most.” He glances at Cuthbert, who meets his eyes and nods, and that is something. “With Cuthbert’s help, I can reach much, much farther, but that requires both of our complete concentration. A lengthy exploration might drain more of his energy than would be safe if battle comes soon after.”

“How certain are you the attack will come up the Silk Road?” Cuthbert asks.

“Fairly,” Roland answers.

“More than fairly,” Jamie adds. “Many of the towns along it are crumbling or deserted, and, unless he travels first through Gilead in the North, which is still well fortified and well supplied, the river will make an army’s path impossible. Further South and to the West of Gilead the land is barren or mountainous - not nearly enough resources to support a military force - the same is true toward the East, except along this road.”

“My thoughts as well, but perhaps we can confirm?” Cuthbert holds his hand out across the table to Alain. His sleeve is rolled up to his elbow, and, as he stretches to reach, the tendons in his rangey forearm stretch his suntanned skin.

Alain looks at Roland, who nods gravely. He takes hold of Cuthbert’s hand and closes his own eyes.

They are on East Tower Lawn. Cuthbert is sitting next to him, already holding his hand. “I am not angry at you anymore,” he says, staring out at the Bergher forest.

“I know,” Alain responds. He looks at Cuthbert. In his mind, there is a nasty bruise around his neck and a raw rope burn on his wrist.

Cuthbert laughs and turns to meet his eyes. “You didn’t,” he guesses correctly, “But now you do. I understand. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to come out the way it did.”

“I’m sorry, too. For everything” Alain tugs at Cuthbert’s consciousness.

They are in the courtyard. Alain does not want to look at Cuthbert’s mental bruises, and so they disappear. He’s cracked, but he won’t break; not ever. Cuthbert smiles and kisses him. 

Alain rides the sensation of the imaginary kiss out on the wind. Cuthbert’s mind leaves his lips far behind and travels with him, buoying his touch on borrowed energy. They soar over the minds of people travelling on the Silk Road; some of them are serving Farson, carrying food or weapons or other menial supplies along with silk and other goods imported from the sea. He follows the supply line through the mountains, then North to one of Farson’s camps. He does not dare attempt to touch the man himself - he’s rumored to have wizards on his side and may be one himself - but he touches generals, infantrymen and camp followers and gleans over and over the telling words, “Silk Road,” “farms,” “Gilead’s crops,” and “South.”

The return to reality comes like a rush of wind. Alain takes a breath and opens his eyes. Across from him, Cuthbert rests his head, face down, in the crook of the elbow of his unextended arm.

“They are still far away, but this is the route they plan to take,” Alain confirms. He squeezes Cuthbert’s hand. 

“Did you touch Farson?” Roland asks.

Alain shakes his head. “I feared that he would feel me there.”

Roland nods, then looks at Cuthbert. Reluctantly, Alain lets his hand go. Slowly, semi-consciously, Cuthbert’s extended arm curves back around the one holding his head. 

“We travelled very far,” Alain tells Roland, “Farther than we’ve ever tried. We’ve only done this once or twice before. It’s hard on him.”

“It was his idea.”

“The first time, yes.”

“And tonight also. He’s cleverer than you.”

Alain laughs a little at this. He does not think it’s meant to be an insult. “To his own detriment, sometimes,” he adds.

Roland’s eyes are ice. “He will recover.” Yet, his gaze softens when he looks down at Cuthbert. Tenderly, he runs his long fingers through Cuthbert’s short, dark hair. 

His friend moans softly, then sits up so suddenly he falls out of his chair. Roland is startled into a rare laugh, and Cuthbert smiles at him woozily. 

“I’ll start on the floor next time, say thankya,” he slurs as he lies down on his side and curls into a ball.

Jamie kneels down beside him. “Can you walk?”

“I’d rather not,” Cuthbert groans.

“Just to the cot,” Jamie promises. Jamie is tall and strong with an athletic build. He hauls the slighter Cuthbert to his feet and drags his uncharacteristically clumsy friend to the nearest of their cots (Jamie’s own) before allowing him to collapse.

“How long?” Roland asks. He had been concerned for his falcon, too, until the day he’d sent it charging against Cort. And he had buried him lovingly afterwards with Cuthbert’s help.

“We’ve never tried so far.” Alain repeats. 

“We’ll time him. Then we’ll know. But you are right - this is no sustainable solution.”

“We need a signal,” Jamie says, returning to his seat. “A fire or lantern signal that can travel across a series of watch points starting at the abandoned watchtower at Sailor’s Pass. If they are close enough together the lights can be dim and inconspicuous, and each can be extinguished as soon as the next is lit. It will only work at night, but . . .” He is finished.

“That is a good plan, Jamie DeCurry, but it is a hard hundred miles to the pass, we would need ten posts at least, with more than one man to a post, and the scout at the pass must be keen eyed.”

They settle into gloomy silence. Even Alain understands that they cannot spare twenty men from their own little army.

The next person to speak is, surprisingly, Cuthbert. “Children,” he mumbles, and, at first his friends think he is talking in his sleep, or, perhaps, insulting them. Then, he speaks more clearly. “Send the children. There is no place for us to keep them safe - even the walls of Gilead may fall, and corruption is rampant in the city. They want to help. What better way to hide them than under Farson’s very nose? If we can find twenty children, who are not inclined to panic, their young eyes will aid our cause. With luck, they should have ample time to disappear into the countryside before the army passes by. If we are not lucky it will not matter either way.”

Like Cuthbert himself, the solution he proposes is both kind and brutal. Roland is well pleased. 

9

The next day they select the children. Roland makes a grand announcement to the villagers, and they set up a line to screen the children for the deadly mission. First, they come to Cuthbert, who has apparently recovered fully after a long night’s sleep. He smiles at them gently, takes their names, and asks them why they want to do this thing. Alain observes the conversation from afar, probing each child with his mind. By the time they come to see him he has already passed judgment, and he shoos the ill qualified ones back to their grateful parents and sends the promising ones on to Jamie, who gives them their assignment.

On the evening of the fourth day, as they hide the children in a vegetable cart and send them to their fate, a rider from Gilead approaches in the opposite direction. 

Steven Deschain is dead. Murdered. Stabbed in his own chambers. 

Gilead is headless.

Roland accepts this news with a hard, unreadable expression. While the messenger rests he summons his ka-tet in council. Although his grief is palpable, he does not speak on it. 

“This timing is very bad,” he says instead.

Cuthbert fails to suppress a laugh. “Indeed,” he says sarcastically, “I long to hear tell of my father’s death on a cold midwinter Sunday just as the sun is breaking through the clouds. No other time will do.”

Roland glares at him but speaks to purpose: “If we do not return to Gilead, the elders and the people there will disparage all of us now destined to join the Ka-Tet of the Gun. Control will slip to chaos. Yet, if we go, Farson may use this moment to attack.”

“At least one of us must stay behind,” Alain reasons, hoping that it might be him. He worries he will not be able to manufacture a convincing facsimile of grief in public.

“One and only one,” Roland agrees. “Jamie, you were the first man chosen for this mission. You will stay. Keep the messenger here with you until you have set up another chain of lookouts between here and Gilead; then you can send him back. Send word to me at once if Farson seems about to strike. We will return immediately.”

Jamie rises and walks to Roland’s chair. He kneels before him and holds out his guns, barrels pointed at his own body, grips facing his dinh. This ceremony awaits Alain and Cuthbert on the steps of Castle Gilead, but Jamie will not be there, and so he is the first.

Jamie recites in the High Speech: “My lord and dinh, to you I pledge my guns, my body, and my mind. I remember the face of my father, but you are my master now. In life and death I follow and obey.” 

Roland stands and takes his guns. He holds them in his hands for a moment as if testing their weight. Then he hands them back. He places his hands at each side of Jamie’s face. “Rise, gunslinger! I accept your pledge. Holster your guns and strike next only in my name.” 

Jamie rises, head bent and still in Roland’s grasp. Roland kisses his forehead and lets go. Alain’s heart hammers in his chest. He feel’s ka’s bond strengthen between Roland and Jamie and longs to consummate his promise, too. He sees his longing mirrored, even magnified, in Cuthbert’s large, dark eyes although they are not touching and Knows that ka will tug and eat at each of them until they make their pledge.

The solemn silence is broken by Roland fiddling with his clothes. Alain sees Cuthbert raise a brow and smirk and realizes what he’s after. At the usual ceremony, Roland will give them symbols of his name, something that belongs to him that they will wear in honor as an emblem of his trust and a reminder of their pledge of loyalty to him and to the rest of their ka-tet. Many eligible baubles must have come to Roland through the years because of his position, but he is himself a simple man - a simple speaker, simply dressed. He does not wear ornamental medallions or travel with sentimental trinkets. 

Alain is just beginning to feel the pulse of his frustration (sometimes Roland is simple minded, too) when Cuthbert conspicuously adjusts his trousers. Everybody stares at him. Alain blushes and is gratified when Jamie, whose freckled skin is at least as fair as his, does, too. Roland frowns, furrows his eyebrows and blinks. Cuthbert huffs and rolls his eyes, clearly conveying his opinion of their communal stupidity, and flicks his own belt buckle so his fingernail clicks against the metal.

Roland removes his belt. The belt itself is good but well worn - soft, brown leather. The buckle is slightly ornate, yet nothing that would normally call attention to itself. Roland has had it since before they went to Mejis; he never had the heart to wear the finer belt his mother had been holding out to him when Rhea fooled him into shooting her. 

Nobody has been speaking, but Roland raises his hand anyway, and somehow the already quiet room seems to further still. “Take this as my symbol. Know me as dinh. We are ka-tet.”

Jamie accepts the belt. “I will.” The bond between them seals and grow stronger yet.

Then further fumbling and rustling ensue as Jamie pulls off his own belt, buckles on the new one as solemnly as he can, and awkwardly hands his old belt over to Roland, whose trousers are beginning to slip. Cuthbert lasts until Roland tugs his waistband up where it belongs before he bursts out laughing. 

10

Although Alain arrives in Gilead with Roland he attends Steven Deschain’s funeral in the company of his parents. The ceremony is remarkable. All the nobles dress in black and stand in the Great Hall as Vannay and several holy men proclaim the rites of death in solemn High Speech. Roland stands nearby and recites his part of the call and response. When it is over, Steven Deschain burns on a pyre on the castle steps, and Roland is Dinh of Gilead. Alain stares into the flames and Knows it does not matter how Roland acts in his new role. Gilead is doomed.

When the pyre is lit, the stairs are crowded. Nobility and common folk from as far away as Taunton and Debaria have come to pay their respects to Gilead's fallen Dinh. By the time midnight approaches only Vannay, the holy men, and the gunslingers and their families remain: Steven Deschain’s lifelong ka-tet, including Christopher Johns and Robert Allgood and their wives, a younger group led by Charles son of Charles, and a smattering of boys in training, who, Alain guesses, have not enough time left to ever bear the gun in their own right. And, of course, Roland's ka-tet. Not for the first time, Alain envies Jamie building ramparts in the South.

As the night wears on, the sleepy boys depart, then the wives, and then younger gunslingers, until only Vannay, the holy men, and the ka-tets of Steven and Roland Deschain are left behind. The blazing tower of fire has dwindled, but hot coals and tiny licks of flame still play about the pyre. They must keep vigil until dawn whether the fire goes out or not. 

Alain, who rode most of the night before, stifles a yawn. He looks across the long, stone steps at Cuthbert, who, instead of standing with his family, had stood at Roland’s shoulder all throughout, dark and serious and beautiful in black. Cuthbert meets his eye and smiles briefly - more a greeting or acknowledgement that any sign of mirth.

Alain's father follows his eye and mutters, “I know you love him dearly, and I hardly blame the lad for lack of grief, but to wear that in mourning is in poor taste even so.”

Alain looks at his friend again. “He is not out of place in any way.”

Christopher Johns snorts softly. “I'll give you that. And him. But in this company . . .” The people here are all, with few exceptions, those who had been party to Cuthbert's dreadful two-year mission to fuck his way through Gilead's treacherous upper class. 

Alain examines Cuthbert once again. His bright white tunic and lace up vest are the same ones that he wore for Gabrielle - the ones he had changed out of at the start of their first mission - but he doubts his father remembers that detail. He wears no jacket, only a dark gray cloak his mother wrapped around his shoulders when she left them for the night, and that is not unusual or inappropriate. His trousers would be unremarkable as well, except that they are not in his usual style: more fitted than he typically prefers, they tuck into the tops of his formal boots instead of falling over them and breaking on the vamp. This is not Cuthbert’s preferred design, but neither is black, which he thinks makes him look pale and ghoulish (Alain disagrees), nor are the trousers lewdly tight - many gunslingers wear trousers of this fashion. As Alain continues to look, he sees the glimmer of the dying embers flicker on his friend’s thigh and realizes the pants are leather - good for riding. They have laces, too, instead of buttons, and match nicely with his waistcoat. Alain’s eyes widen. They are the trousers from the stomach turning mission with Spencer and his child-wife.

Cuthbert seems to notice him noticing, and he adjusts his face and body into something between a grimace and a shrug, which he hides in a subtle stretching motion before turning his face away from Alain and laying a hand on Roland’s shoulder. Roland does not turn to look at him, but he takes the hand and squeezes it for several seconds. It is the only moment of comfort Alain has seen him take since he first heard the news about his father’s death.

Alain sighs. “He may find his dress poetic,” he whispers to his father, “But I doubt it is intentional. He never wears black outside of mourning, and his good black trousers were a loss on that first mission. Most likely he did not replace them, and these are the only ones he has.”

Alain’s father steps closer to him. “What do you mean ‘a loss?’”

Alain’s temper flares. He takes his father’s hand and pushes into his surprised mind. Alain loves his parents, and he has done his best to spare them the true nature of his “gift,” but he is angry and exhausted with two years of horror and betrayal knocking around inside his head, and he can’t help himself. He had intended just to send his father private words he did not want the other gunslingers to overhear, but he finds himself unable to articulate. Instead, he sends him images: glimpses of horrors seen through Cuthbert’s eyes, then Corbett’s; Cuthbert stumbling into the street, naked and bloody, surrounded by gold coins, screaming for his potentially incriminating boots; Alain leaving him under the Black Bridge with nothing but those boots and his own pocket knife and returning to find that he has used the knife to cut the hair the Corbetts made him hate. Alain ends the connection abruptly before he can be tempted to share more.

“A loss,” he whispers again, “His humor’s gotten very dark. I wonder if he laughed when he looked in his wardrobe and realized that he only had black trousers because he was too nauseated by the mission that he wore them on to change and give them back. I’ll bet he did. I’ll bet he has the blue shirt, too, and maybe the long jacket. Can you imagine him excusing that outfit to his mother? ‘Why, mother, I’m a grown man now, and I have appetites. The girls in low town can’t resist me when I dress like this,’ or some such tripe. Or maybe something closer to the truth - he has half truths down to an art - like . . .”

“Stop!” hisses his father. Alain can feel his mortification and Knows he does not want to hear what might be closer to the truth.

Alain sighs again. “I’ll stop that line of talk, but I will say my piece to you. The days of maligning Cuthbert Allgood are done. They die with him upon that pyre. I’ve touched him once or twice today, and, somehow, he feels real grief. It’s all for Roland’s sake, I’m sure, but that is more than I can manage. Do you remember David? Cuthbert is Roland’s falcon now. He’ll bite at him when he does wrong, but he will serve him loyally until the day he hears ‘Hie! Cuthbert! Kill!’ and charges forth, without regret, to his own end. You do not need the touch to know I’m right.”

There is a long silence. Eventually, Christopher Johns says, “I may not need the touch, but you have seen it. You told me once - two dark haired men, close friends, a lot of blood, and one man laughing. I had almost forgotten. He doesn’t say, ‘Hie! Cuthbert! Kill!’ - he says, ‘Then blow that fucking horn!’ You asked me about fucking.”

“I’ve never seen how that day ends.”

“And where are you in this?”

“Dead, I expect,” Alain admits without emotion. He has felt the truth of this for years and had plenty of time to make his peace with it, always fretting more over Cuthbert’s bloody, inevitable demise than his. He does not add that he has never seen the place where Cuthbert laughs at death or that he and Roland are still very young men in that prophetic dream. His anger has faded, and he does not have the heart to add to this morbid conversation the implication that Gilead falls first - and soon. What he does add is, “Minutes or years before - I cannot say.” 

Christopher Johns’ breath catches in his throat. “And how many years might you have?”

Alain’s lack of answer is answer enough.

With the dawn a meager crowd returns. The gunslingers and their families are back, as well as a smattering of noblemen, townsfolk, and visiting mourners, all curious to see the ritual. Now is the time for the new Dinh of Gilead to recognize his Ka-Tet of the Gun. When at last the sun crests over the city walls and bathes the castle steps in morning light Roland steps forward. Alain holds his breath.

Roland is dressed in unusual finery - silks and fine wools and a long, black cloak with silver brocade fastened with a silver brooch in likeness of the Great Turtle. For the first time, he wears the ornate belt his dying mother had held in her hands. His father's guns hang on his thighs and, beside them, also for the first time, he wears his birthright: the ancient Horn of Eld that has been passed down through the family Deschain. Alain has seen this (fucking) horn in only two places before: on Steven Descain’s belt and at dream-Cuthbert’s lips. Like Cuthbert, Roland looks striking in black. His face is a patch of pale between his tunic and his hair, and his eyes glitter like sapphires - cold, hard, blue. His naturally serious demeanor does him credit in this ceremonial setting, and his height adds to the air of authority that he projects. Alain Knows Roland is a romantic at heart; at turns, he reveres and detests the pageantry of Gilead. The many rites of ka-tet are in the first category, and, as he steps forth and raises his right hand to call for silence, even the most ignorant observer understands his solemn reverence for the rites.

“My people!” Roland cries in High Speech. A ripple runs through the crowd. Many here have never heard it spoken, and even those that understand it seem to shiver at the young gunslinger's natural command. “My people,” he says again, “You have gathered here to witness the public recognition of my own ka-tet: gunslingers who today become Ka-Tet of the Gun. Jamie DeCurry is on military assignment, and, by my order, may not leave his post; already have I received his pledge, and he wears my symbol in anticipation of this day. Next, I call on Alain Johns. Alain, son of Christopher, step forth if you will pledge to me. I Roland, son of Steven command it.”

Alain breaks from his father’s side. Light headed, he follows as ka pulls him, chest first, towards Roland. The touch amplifies the tension between them in anticipation of what Alain expects will be an almost orgasmic release once their bond is finally, officially fulfilled. Like Jamie DeCurry before him, he draws his guns and kneels, extending his arms to offer his weapons to his dinh.

Alain recites: “My lord and dinh, to you I pledge my guns, my body, and my mind. I remember the face of my father, but you are my master now. In life and death I follow and obey.”

Tall and solemn, Roland receives his guns and then returns them. His long, slender hands tuck into Alain’s hair and curl around his jaw and ears. He responds: “Rise, gunslinger! I accept your pledge. Holster your guns and strike next only in my name.” 

Alain rises and feels Roland’s kiss upon his forehead. His heart is beating faster now. The bond is strengthened but not yet complete. Giddily, he wonders whether Jamie shook with need through all that time that Roland searched his body for a symbol and struggled with his belt. How much is his own experience amplified by his sensitivity to the touch?

Every second is interminable until Roland removes the Turtle brooch from his fancy brocade cloak. There is no other clasp to hold it up, and so the heavy cloak falls to the ground behind him with a whumph. Without it, Roland looks much more himself. He holds the brooch out to Alain. “Take this as my symbol. Know me as dinh. We are ka-tet.”

“I will,” Alain promises. He pins the Turtle at the collar of his own cloak, and the tension between them evaporates. Alain feels wonderful, rejuvenated. He finds himself smiling at Roland, and Roland smiles back briefly before dismissing him with a nod. As he picks up Roland’s discarded cloak, drapes it over his left arm, and takes his place behind his dinh’s left shoulder, Alain can feel Roland’s presence tug at Cuthbert, his one remaining satellite, and guesses, even touchblind, that Cuthbert feels it, too. In this moment, he is thankful that it is Cuthbert and not he who is closest to their dinh; the combined pull of Roland and Cuthbert and, though absent, Jamie, would have been excruciating had he been called on last.

At the beginning of the ceremony Cuthbert drifted from his place at Roland’s side, and now he stands beside his mother, who holds one of his fine boned hands between both of her own. His father, Alain notices, stands nearby but out of reach - either he has not regained the right to touch his son or he has been too ashamed to press the issue. Cuthbert’s wait is short.

“Last, I call on Cuthbert Allgood,” Roland proclaims, “Cuthbert, son of Robert, step forth if you will pledge to me. I Roland, son of Steven command it.”

Cuthbert turns to smile at his mother. He squeezes her hands and leaves her with the dark gray cloak. He glances only briefly at his father before approaching Roland with his back straight and his head held high. With a grace Alain could never manage, he kneels before his lifelong friend and offers up his guns. “Roland, dear heart, with love I give to you my heart for yours, which you once lost. I give to you my mind and with it my tongue, so you will always have a counselor, a diplomat, and a fool. I give to you my body, which will be your weapon, and my guns, which will be mine. To you my life is forfeit. I will not follow blind, but I promise I will follow you forever.”

A murmur rustles through the crowd. Cuthbert’s words are beautiful, but even the townsfolk and visitors unfamiliar with the High Speech can surely tell his words were different from Alain’s.

Roland looks down at him for a long time. At last, he, too, breaks from the ritualistic text: “These are not the words of ceremony. Speak and explain yourself.”

“I have spoken the words of my pledge,” Cuthbert says, “I respect the ritual, but it does not perfectly convey my promise. Words gain power not only when they are the same, repeated through tradition, but also when they are different.”

Roland nods and stands in silence for a moment, apparently considering Cuthbert’s argument. It is a mighty struggle for Alain to stay out of both their heads. 

Finally, Roland nods again and says, “I hear you very well. Speak, then, the other words as well, and I will answer back. So, we will put the seal of tradition on your promise.”

Cuthbert smiles. “Good my lord,” he agrees, his antiquated language acting as a segue into the ancient recitation: “My lord and dinh, to you I pledge my guns, my body, and my mind. I remember the face of my father, but you are my master now. In life and death I follow and obey.” 

Roland takes his guns at last and holds them for a long moment, pointing them at their owner. The crowd lets out a collective sigh of relief when he hands them back. He places his hands on either side of Cuthbert’s head. “Rise, gunslinger! I accept your pledge. Holster your guns and strike next only in my name.” 

As Cuthbert rises into Roland’s kiss, one of Roland’s hands slides around to the back of his neck so he can pull his forehead with more force against his lips. This kiss lasts longer than the others. When Roland pulls back and drops his hands the two young men stare hard into each other’s eyes. 

“Take this as my symbol. Know me as dinh. We are ka-tet.” Roland holds out the great horn passed, father to son, down the line of Eld.

Everybody gasps, including Cuthbert. Christopher Johns’ face is ash. Alain does his best to smile at his father reassuringly. He Knows that Roland’s faith in Cuthbert is well placed, and he is gratified to see it manifest in such a grand and public gesture. Although he is a trifle shaken to see Cuthbert bear the horn so soon, he is plainly less surprised than Cuthbert himself, who gawps at Roland for a moment before recovering. 

“I will.” Cuthbert accepts the horn with great care and hangs it from his belt. When he looks up from his task, he is smiling, wide and sweet. 

Roland nods, and Cuthbert grins more cheekily then schools his face into solemnity and resumes his old place behind Roland’s right shoulder. As his stands, his right hand rests upon the horn.

“Gunslingers, turn and face your people!” Roland commands. All of the gunslingers turn where they are standing and face the crowd and the city below. “Here stands the Ka-Tet of the Gun!” he cries. Then, softly to Cuthbert in the low speech, “Blow that fucking horn.”

Cuthbert laughs just as softly to himself and steps forward again so he is at Roland’s right side. He raises the horn to his lips and blows a long, clear note. Alain’s giddiness is gone; he stands straight backed and somber in his place behind Roland’s left shoulder. Inside, he does not know whether to laugh or cry.

 

11

The following morning, Cuthbert rides back to the Southern Territories as Roland’s surrogate. Food and rest have chased away the haggard look he had worn after two sleepless nights, and he arrives at the stables bright eyed and chewing on a sticky bun, looking so delicious in his black mourning attire that Alain wants to kneel down and worship him with his mouth. On a whim, he sends this thought to Cuthbert through the touch and smiles slyly as his friend chokes on the flaky pastry, making Roland laugh and slap his back.

“Bert, darling, you must take care,” Cuthbert’s mother warns, swooping in to pat his cheek and pull him into an embrace.

“Do not worry, Mother,” Cuthbert answers back, “The farmers in the South have never offered me a pastry yet. Cornbread, yes, but . . .”

She pulls him to her once again and pecks him on the cheek. “Take care,” she says again.

This time he nods. “I will.” He starts to turn toward Roland, but she stops him with a hand on his arm. 

“Bert . . .” she starts and stops.

“Yes, mother?”

“Bert, you and your father have been under so much strain. I don’t know what has come between you, but I know . . .” Here she chokes down a sob and looks away. Cuthbert takes her hands and looks at her, wide eyed and caring. She squeezes his hands hard and finally continues, voice scratchy and broken, “I know there is a chance that you will not return. Please, son, do not leave your father without an embrace.”

Cuthbert squeezes her hands back, then pulls her close to him again. “Alright,” he murmurs into her hair. Then he turns to face his father, who had been lurking at the edge of the courtyard, preparing to see his son off from a distance. “Father,” he says loudly, “won’t you come and take my hand?” 

Alain can feel him debating whether to say more - something about forgiveness or putting the past behind them - but he Knows Cuthbert does not forgive his father and will never forget the horror and humiliation of the coerced missions he was party to. In the end, Cuthbert leaves it at that. He takes his father’s hand in his, then, somewhat stiltedly, embraces him. When he pulls back, Robert Allgood’s fingers linger on the collar of his long, black jacket, and he smiles wryly at his son.

“Waste not, want not,” Cuthbert mutters quietly and shrugs. His smile is at least as dark and sardonic as his father’s. 

The jacket, Alain realizes, is from the Spencer mission, too. It had been soft, luxuriant suede and claspless, but Cuthbert has oiled it liberally and added wooden toggle buttons on thick, blonde rope loops, giving it a rugged, more practical look. The transformation rendered the once frivolous garment too informal for the ceremonies of the previous day, but it will be good protection from the dust and weather on the road, and its tailored lines make his riding costume look more formal. 

Alain laments he will not be there to see the villagers’ reaction to the young gunslinger’s appearance and the Horn of Eld upon his belt. He regrets missing Jamie’s reaction, too, and wonders whether Cuthbert ever confronted him with what he knows he knows. If such a conversation did take place, Alain had not been privy to it, and he won’t be this time, either: Roland wants him here in Gilead to help investigate the murder of his father.

Alain is dreading this assignment, and he envies Roland even less. His father’s death has orphaned him, and, although he has the elder gunslingers and other experienced advisors to help him manage Gilead, in this task he can trust only his own ka-tet. Brazenly committed in Deschain’s bedchamber deep in Castle Gilead, this murder makes every supposed ally a potential traitor except the four young men who had been in the South. And, Alain supposes, even they could theoretically have been in some way party to his death if one of them had left an accomplice here within the castle.

As soon as Cuthbert says farewell and gallops off on Glue Boy with nothing but a change of clothes, a canteen, and his lunch, Alain seeks Roland’s private council to appease this growing fear. “Roland,” he says, “You may think me a fool to ask, but I must ease my mind.”

“Speak, then,” Roland replies. They have made their way to Roland’s childhood room, which, with the rest of his family deceased, is as secluded as any in the castle.

“You did not send Cuthbert away because you suspect he had a hand in this, did you? He and your father . . .”

“Have never been fond of one another,” Roland finishes for him. He raises his long arm above Alain’s, clasps him firmly by the shoulder, and looks down into his eyes. “You are not a fool to ask. Do you suspect him?”

“No. His loyalty to you is too complete, regardless of their mutual dislike.”

Roland nods. “I do not suspect him either. There is only one contingency I know where he might share some of the guilt. Do you suspect me?”

This is a fair question. Surely there are those in Gilead already speculating that Roland may have orchestrated his father’s murder in order to usurp his place. “No,” Alain replies with confidence, “I feel your grief, and I do not think that you would undermine the city.”

Roland nods again. “Then we are of a mind. I choose to trust you with my confidence because we are ka-tet, and you were with me in the South when the foul deed was done. I was loathe to send Cuthbert away. His clever mind would be an asset here, but I have made him my right hand, and he must represent me in the South. You and your touch I cannot spare. The two of us shall do with bludgeoning brute force what Cuthbert’s cunning might have helped us do more delicately.”

“I hear you very well,” Alain agrees, “He will be your proxy in the South, and I will be your shadow in his stead.”

12

Roland’s approach to his investigation does not win him any favor in the castle, but it is methodical and necessary. He calls the servants in to see him one by one and questions them while Alain sits by and touches them. Several lie to cover up other incriminating things - petty theft, adultery, even the rape and murder of a missing kitchen boy - but none of them, by words or what Alain reads in their untrained minds, can be implicated in the murder of Steven Deschain. When Alain reports back, Roland is disappointed. He had had high hopes the missing boy might be their culprit. Once the soldiers in the castle have been vetted, he will have his murderer arrested. But the servants and the soldiers are both long shots. Which of them would Deschain have allowed into his bedchamber at night, only to turn his back on them in trust? More likely, his assailant was a lover, an advisor, or another gunslinger. If they do not find and make example of the traitor, the gunslingers of Gilead will never hold the people’s faith, and the city will fall without Farson ever battering the gates.

Three days into this exhausting, fruitless exercise the real suspects begin to appear. On the fourth day, they examine Alain’s own father. From him, as from the others, Alain gleans most of all surprise - surprise at Deschain’s death and surprise that he is suspected in the act. 

“Nobody with opportunity is exempt,” Roland explains.

Christopher Johns nods gravely; his gray-blond curls bob about his face. Although he is taller and slimmer than Alain himself, whose build is broad and solid, un-gunslinger-like, Alain recognizes for the first time his own reflection in his father’s bearded face. Perhaps it is because their positions are suddenly reversed. Christopher Johns’ spirits are low, and he has little hope for Gilead. He guesses Alain’s dream is not far off. He mourns his old friend Steven’s death and the decline toward ruthless desperation that led up to it. He appreciates the irony that his son sits now in a position of authority, probing his mind for clues into the murder of a man, whom he admitted he could not bring himself to mourn. He suspects Cuthbert but has no idea how he might have orchestrated the crime or whether he was so far gone as to betray his dinh and friend. He knows nothing.

Robert Allgood comes in next. To Roland, he expresses naught but grief and full cooperation. His mind is much more cluttered, but Alain finds what he expects - an underlying hatred of the dead man tangled in amongst his lifelong love; grief for Steven mingled with relief that Cuthbert is now safe from him; pride at seeing his son receive the horn, which no gunslinger not named Deschain has borne in recent memory; shame, self deprecation. It leaves Alain with a neausiating, oily feeling, and he is glad to pull out of his head.

The last man that day is Vannay. He praises Roland for his thoroughness but warns that this, too, may cause the people’s trust to falter whether the murderer is found among Deschain’s most trusted counselors or not. 

“None of my options are good,” Roland admits.

“That they are not,” Vannay agrees.

Like the others, he cooperates. In contrast to the previous moments when Alain has brushed his mind, he is surprised to find it fully open to his probe. There is so much there that it is overwhelming at first, but soon Alain discovers order. It’s like going through the studies on the missions. He sees many things he did not want to know but nothing that has bearing on this mystery.

He bids Roland good night and takes his leave, planning to retire to his room to think (and sleep if he can). Unless Steven Deschain had a secret lover not yet found, there are only a few people left for them to question, and Alain is not hopeful that one of them will be the killer. It is nothing clear or tangible, but he has a feeling they have met the murderer already. His hunches tend to be correct, his instincts influenced by the touch; somebody is hiding something.

There is an easy indoor path from Steven Dechain’s study (Roland’s now), where the interrogations have taken place, to Alain’s quarters in the South Wing, but he cuts across the courtyard instead to give himself some air. The night is brisk and clear, and stars glitter over Castle Gilead. Alain has his cloak with him, so he takes his time, unbothered by the cool night air. On a whim, he visits East Tower Lawn and sits there by himself thinking of Cuthbert.

He reaches out toward the Southern Territories and finds his fuzzy presence there alongside Jamie’s. They are both alive and well. The connection between his absent friends is stronger than it was last time they were away together. Then, Alain could feel them both as separate entities calling to him through the touch. Now, with their ka-tet strengthened by ritual and mutual experience, he can feel the touch flow back and forth between them, too. The give and take feels more companionable than anything, but, because one of them is Cuthbert, Alain can’t help but think of fucking.

Alain does not think Cuthbert has a sexual relationship with Jamie the way he strongly suspects he does (or has at times) with Roland, but, perhaps because they are ka-tet, he finds himself aroused and only vaguely jealous at the thought of them together. He remembers how tenderly Jamie had laid Cuthbert down on his own cot after Alain had drained his energy to send his mind to Farson’s camp and surprises himself by imagining them on that cot now, face to face, lying on their sides, their long, bare limbs tangled together as Cuthbert strokes their cocks as one. In his fantasy they are beautiful together: Jamie’s oh so pale skin would make Cuthbert’s less pallid complexion seem more tan, his hair so dark; Cuthbert would roll them over and grind down on his friend’s cock, fisting his fingers in the soft loops of Jamie’s faded ginger hair; the red mark on Jamie’s large, freckled hand would betray his identity as he clutched at Cuthbert’s slighter back and moaned his name in pleasure.

Alain pulls his cloak over his lap to shield himself from the chilly night air and opens up his trousers. He strokes himself almost meditatively as he replays the unexpected fantasy in his mind and thinks. Last time he sat here Roland came and said Alain was Cuthbert’s lover. Is this true? He has never permitted himself to think of him that way. He shifts his fantasy. Now, he is the one lying under Cuthbert, and Cuthbert grins and takes things further.

‘I’m glad it’s you,’ he says, ‘I want to fuck you, Al.’

‘Oh, yes!’ Alain encourages. Then, because it is a fantasy, they skip the messy preparations and Cuthbert plunges deep inside, slamming him down into the canvas backing of the cot. He fucks him hard and takes his pleasure, and Alain is glad to be his vessel when he comes. 

Because he does not want to come yet in the present, fantasy Alain does not come either. ‘I want you in me one more time before I do,’ he says. He draws upon the memory of Cuthbert’s kiss and imagines kissing him until he’s hard again and fucks his tongue into Alain’s greedy, open mouth.

Alain turns over on his hands and knees on East Tower Lawn and moves the fantasy to here. They have met on nights like this before and kissed, and Cuthbert has watched him touch himself and grinned. In his imaginary tryst, Cuthbert is hard and ready once again, and he fucks Alain mercilessly with both his hands on his hips while Alain balances on his left palm and jerks off with his right. This time, they come in unison. Alain spills in the grass, puts himself away, and sits facing the forest again, mindful of the sticky mess beside him.

This is what he wants. He wants Cuthbert to be aggressive - to act on his desires. He wants to be the object of that desire, but it no longer breaks his heart to think that Cuthbert might prefer Roland or even Jamie. In the end, are they not all ka-tet? Perhaps Cuthbert would rather love a woman - somebody he has not yet met. He loves Cuthbert so much; if only he would tell him what he really wants.

Alain fills his lungs with crisp, clear air, and the chill of the evening finally begins to set in. He shivers. As he gets up to go he thinks of Cuthbert sitting here, so very young, his nose bleeding as he leads Alain in useless circles in his mind. Alain had had to press so hard to even tell that he was hiding something. He remembers his smile afterwards - a ghastly echo of Alain’s recurring dream. He remembers them embracing in the courtyard. Then, he thinks of Mejis: Cuthbert nude and sated on the floor, his dark eyes bright with unshed tears. Alain had told him that he wanted to make him happy, which is still what he wants most of all. He had thought Cuthbert had been evasive when he’d asked about his own desires. Now, he realizes he was wrong. He brushes off his cloak and trousers and walks home to the South Wing, hoping that his father is still up.

13

Alain gets his wish. When he arrives at his family’s rooms in the South Wing, Christopher Johns is waiting to speak with him.

“Hello, father,” Alain says. 

“Hello, Alain. You have had a long day. Perhaps you need a midnight snack? The coffee’s cold now, but . . .” he shrugs and pushes a plate of toast and pastries toward Alain, who sits down opposite his father at the little table in their sitting room.

“I’ll have some anyway.” Alain’s father nods and pours him a cup. It is very late, and the little dinner Alain had with Roland was hours ago now. His stomach rumbles. “Say thankya,” he says and takes a pastry.

Christopher Johns watches him eat. Alain does not attempt to touch his father now, but the weight of his earlier depression is palpable in the room. Alain closes his eyes and takes another bite. Unexpected jam dribbles down his chin. Surprised, he laughs out loud and reaches for a napkin. It is the best opening he could have hoped for.

“Cuthbert told me that he loves these, once,” Alain says, still smiling from his surprised laugh, “It’s true, of course. I found out later. His sweet tooth is amazing. I did not know that then, though. He was fucking with me when he said it. You didn’t mention that meaning.”

“No,” murmurs Christopher Johns, surprised, “I did not think of it. How . . .” he starts to ask a question, but Alain interrupts him.

“That conversation changed my life, you know. That was the day I realized who they were. ‘Who would laugh because they’re going to die?’ you asked, and then I Knew.”

“Cuthbert Allgood,” Alain’s father says.

Alain nods, takes a deep breath, and plunges forward. “You suspect him.”

Christopher Johns swallows hard. “Shall we speak of this out loud, then?”

“Yes,” Alain says firmly, “I am not touching you. A thought has crept into my head, but this conversation needs to run its course.”

Alain’s father nods. “He has motive.”

“Does he?” Alain presses.

“Don’t be coy, Alain. You made your feelings clear enough at Steven Deschain’s vigil.”

“Do you suspect me, also, then?”

Christopher Johns sighs. “You were not here.”

“Neither was he.”

Alain’s father avoids his gaze. He opens his mouth and closes it again.

Alain laughs softly. “You don’t think I’m clever enough to pull it off.”

Now their blue eyes lock. Christopher Johns blushes bright red then pales.

Alain waves his hand to brush the slight aside. “I am probably not. It is not a secret he is cleverer than I; Roland says so often to my face. I will concede that I was glad, when I first heard, that Bert was not in Gilead when it happened.”

“But you do not think he could have orchestrated the murder from afar.”

“I think he could have, surely. He is cunning and manipulative and brutal. But I do not think he did. I do not think he did it because Roland does not benefit.”

“Some might disagree,” Christopher Johns probes.

“Some, say true. But none as quick witted as Cuthbert. He can be emotional and rash, and, had he no alibi, I would have dreaded that he might have killed him in a fit of rage. But premeditated? No. Even I am bright enough to see that Deschain’s death shows Gilead as vulnerable: either we are insecure and penetrable, or we are destroying ourselves from within. The manner of his death has made Roland’s place as Dinh precarious. No, Cuthbert would know better. He is incapable of this.”

“Incapable?”

Alain nods. Leaning forward, he rests his forehead on his hands and stares down into his cold coffee. After a moment, he lays his hands down on either side of his cup and raises his eyes to meet his father’s once again. “This conversation does not leave this room?”

Christopher Johns furrows his brows. Then he reaches out and covers his son’s hand in his. “I promise.”

Alain feels the truth of his vow through the touch. Deeply moved by the gesture, he blinks and lets a tear slip from the corner of his eye. He nods rapidly and confides: “Roland fell in love in Mejis. It was not part of his report. He carried on an affair behind our backs. Cuthbert and I found out, and he - Cuthbert - was furious. He wasn’t wrong to be. The details aren’t important. It all ended very badly. Cuthbert confronted Roland and punched him in the face, and Roland admitted he had been a fool. They came to an accord. The girl helped us. I could feel her on the edge of our ka-tet. Then she was killed. That was what Cuthbert meant when he said Roland could have his heart because he’d lost his once. I had heard that pledge before, or an early version of it, in Cuthbert’s head on our way back. 

“At any rate, somewhere in the middle, when the tension between the two of them was tearing the three of us apart, Cuthbert asked me if I thought he should have offered himself up as Roland’s lover before he had the chance to get distracted. I asked if that was what he wanted, and he said, ‘I would do anything for him.’ I thought he had avoided the question. Maybe he had, but he answered a bigger one. I think that’s all he wants. That’s his driving force. He would do anything for Roland - even let Steven Deschain make him a whore.”

“From where I sat he did not have a choice.”

Alain bobs his head a little to the side and back, considering. “If his loyalty to Roland had not been so complete he might have refused outright and faced the consequences - left Gilead and gone West. Or he might have told Roland what his father had him do and made a rift between them. But he didn’t. Father,” Alain pauses and squeezes his father’s hand, then lets it go. He ends the connection between their minds; he does not want to touch his father when he asks him this. “What if it had been me?”

It takes Alain’s father a moment to realize what Alain is asking. His face hardens. “It would never have been you.”

Alain smiles a little. “Pretend, for instance, though, that people think I’m generally attractive. Yellow hair is rare enough. What would you have done had mine and Cuthbert’s situations been reversed? He is a sharp investigator and capable of quiet grace when the situation calls for it, and my touch would have made the men and women easy to seduce.”

“We did not consider it that way,” Christopher Johns admits, “We needed the information, and it seemed reckless not to keep the mark distracted throughout the search. Steven was my dinh and Dinh of all of Gilead, but I would never have let stand a plan that put you in that place. I would have gladly sacrificed your friend to keep you from that role.”

“That is not how you chose him, though.”

“No.”

“Why didn’t Robert Allgood stop it? Was the benefit to Gilead so great? There must have been another way.”

Alain’s father shrugs and shakes his head. “Steven convinced him it was for the best. We needed someone for the job, somebody we could trust. Cuthbert is a bright lad, plainly loyal to his dinh, but he was always best remembered for his pretty face, and he took too little care with his own reputation.”

Alain thinks of thirteen-year-old Cuthbert keeping his mental defenses secret from Vannay and scowls. “I’ve questioned his decisions more than once, say true, but the cost was awfully high. Had he known that being fucked by sadists was the price of jokes and questions he might have been a little more inclined to keep his mouth shut.”

Christopher Johns regards Alain seriously. “I meant his reputation as Roland Deschain’s catamite.”

The words bore into Alain like a gunshot, and he physically recoils. His chair rocks, and he flails for a moment, knocking his coffee cup off the table. A split second later, his gunslinger reflexes kick in, and he lunges down to catch the cup before it has the chance to shatter on the hard, stone floor and wake his mother. Gently, composedly, he sets the cup back on the table and folds his hands in front of him. His thigh is soaked to the skin, and his fingers drip with cold coffee.

“Can it be you did not know?” Alain’s father asks gently.

“Know what?” Alain whispers. Then, more loudly, he clarifies, “His reputation or the truth?”

Now it is Christopher Johns’ turn to flounder, though he does it less clumsily than his son. “Is there a difference?” he asks, high and strained.

“At least one, if that word means what I think it means. And maybe more besides. It was very hard on him, I think, to realize he was not Roland’s everything in Mejis. Looking back on it, I wonder if he ever considered sex and love - romantic love - as needs Roland would have before we went there.”

“You were all very young,” Christopher Johns allows, “But after . . . you just said . . .”

“I said that he showed willing. He is a pragmatist, not a romantic. To him, giving his body up to Roland for his pleasure might seem no different than serving as the right hand of his dinh. You were not there when Roland won his guns.”

“Indeed, no gunslingers were, but Cort was still lucid enough to describe it in the aftermath. There was never any doubt Roland had beaten him according to the rules.” 

“You know what his weapon was, then, yes?”

Alains father nods. “His falcon. An unusual choice, but obviously effective.”

“‘You forgot your weapon, stupid!’ Cuthbert said. Can you imagine calling your dinh stupid? Roland said he hadn’t, and then he walked off with David to face Cort. He did not see the look on Cuthbert’s face, but I did. I watched him watch that bird destroy itself in Roland’s name and felt his brain reorder all his thoughts. When the battle was over, he smiled and congratulated Roland and went off with him to bury the hawk. I saw him later, and he had drawn a line of blood across his forehead and down the right side of his face, around the eye he loses in my dream. He knows his place.” He pauses, draws a deep breath, and then continues on: “If I were Roland I would be sorely tempted - I know as well as anyone that a suck from a paid gilly does not come with unconditional love - but I have never been sure what there is between them.” He laughs a little at himself. “No, that’s wrong. I know exactly what’s between them; I’ve just never been sure whether it involves sex.”

“But you are sure . . .”

“I Know that Bracken Corbett was the first man he let fuck him.”

“Oh god.” Alain’s father pales and places his hand on his forehead as though he were dizzy or sick.

“Yes, I imagine that was Robert Allgood’s thought as well when he guessed what all of you had done. And by then it was too late; he’d done his job too well. He sent him off to Golden House to get some practice, did you know? He took me with him, so I’ve fucked him, too. I was the second. I wish that I could say that we made love, but the circumstances . . . There were things that day that he enjoyed - turning me into a needy, gasping mess - I let him fuck me first, of course.” 

His father gasps; both hands are holding his head now. 

“How could I not?” Alain goes on, “He was so fucking terrified. I don’t think I can say ‘make love’ around that kind of fear.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Alain’s father moans into his hands.

“Because I want to understand! Who cares if he’d sucked Roland’s cock before? Or even if he’d let him fuck him? He was loyal! How could any of you think it conscionable to have him tortured by that monster?”

“We were desperate for information. We did not think it through.”

“No shit!”

“I hoped . . . I hoped he would not have to. That you would get everything you needed before Corbett came home.”

“Maybe we would have if it had been the other way around. Do you know what Roland said to me? He said he didn’t want to keep Cuthbert from the missions that his father set because he would spot a false record or a potential connection to Farson much more quickly than he or I. Is that not a laugh? I did not find a useful thing until Corbett came back.”

“I hoped that you would kill him. No great loss.”

“Oh no? I offered to. What would have been the consequences then? Cuthbert was determined not to fail.”

“I understand. I’m sorry.”

Alain forces an understanding smile. “I know. I’m sorry, too.”

They sit for a moment in silence. 

“Why did you not address this with me sooner, one on one?” Christopher Johns asks at last.

“I did not see the point,” Alain admits, “You were among them. Maybe I was young and stupid, but I had a mind to keep my father in my heart. I Know so many things, Father, but you were not wrong; we give weight and power to our words and thoughts when we speak them out loud.”

“Why now, then? The past cannot be undone, and now your friend is safe - from this at least.”

“Say true. Exactly. There are two main troubles in my mind, and that is one: why now? It has been two years!”

Alain’s father looks at him long and hard. “We are still talking about Steven Deshcain’s murder.”

Alain nods.

“You do not suspect your friend, but you think he was the reason for the murder all the same.”

Alain nods again, more frantically. A lump is crawling up his throat, and he feels the shameful beginnings of tears spark up behind his eyes. “His grief for Roland is so deep,” Alain’s voice cracks once before he swallows the lump and forces the timbre of his speech to even out, “His situation has improved, but Roland’s is precarious at best. He would not have wanted this, even to spare himself. I Knew he wouldn’t break. I have seen him at his end, and that is not a broken man.”

“Your vision never changed?” Christopher Johns asks carefully.

“No. I dream that dream at the least once or twice a week.”

“Perhaps, then, it was ka that said that it was the time to act. I am older than you, and I have seen how hope can strengthen men when it is given and break them when it is pulled away. Even clever men, who knew that they should not expect their luck to hold. Steven grew hard when Gabrielle deserted him and harder still as Farson’s war waged on. It was cruel of him to let his son send Cuthbert on an honorable quest only to call him back to gilly’s work.”

“Cuthbert resembles Gabrielle,” Alain reminds his father, “And he is sweet and kind and speaks his mind. Roland’s father never liked how close they were.”

“Say true. Cuthbert was his sacrifice; he was prepared to use him up until he broke if he thought Gilead would profit by it.”

“And Robert Allgood wasn’t.”

“I do not know . . . even when we were boys he fought so hard to earn Steven’s approval. Steven was very like Roland in his charisma; he became our leader very early on. Robert knew his son did well enough at lessons that he would likely earn his guns, and he was proud that he was Steven’s son’s preferred companion - Cuthbert had more of Roland’s confidence than Robert ever had of Steven’s, even as a boy. But that pride became eclipsed by shame when Steven disapproved of Robert’s son’s irreverence and his closeness to his Roland. He called him ‘too familiar.’”

“He called him his catamite.”

Alain’s father winces. “It is not as far a step as you might think. Roland goes rarely to low town or even Golden House. Between his familiarity and his comely looks . . .”

“Roland’s heart was broken,” Alain spits.

Alain’s father forges on. “It’s reasonable to expect the source of Robert's shame shifted to himself, to all of us, once he realized the consequences of our actions. I am ashamed, myself. I was before you told me what you did today. But you went inside his head . . .”

“I did. I have been inside his son’s head, too. The first time we did it was the day when Vannay reprimanded him for being hypnotized too easily. He promised Roland he would practice with me so that I could see if he was safe. At first, it seemed Vannay was right, but then . . . the walls, the misdirection so I didn’t even notice that the walls were walls . . . and this from all the way inside his mind . . . ” 

Alain clutches his own skull to emphasize his point and takes a long pause to find the best way to describe what he had done that day. His father waits. Again and again, Alain’s mind returns to that word, “fucking.” He remembers how he had longed to push inside Cuthbert’s body at the same time as his mind and how, when it had happened, it had not been at his friend's delighted invitation but rather because Cuthbert had deemed it necessary. The same had been the case when he first let him come inside his mind - fully inside like they had done that fateful day on East Tower Lawn and so many, many times since. Cuthbert had dreaded that test, Alain remembers now; he had been surprised to find an aspect to it that he liked. And, later, he had urged Alain to abuse that aspect, too, because he thought it might be useful. And all of this for Roland.

Oh, Alain Knows Cuthbert's love for him is genuine. He Knows those things he’d told him when they fucked that once were true. He Knows that he enjoys how much Alain desires him and that sometimes, sometimes that desire makes him hot and hard himself, especially if Alain is in his mind. Pleasure transfers easily from one mind to another, Alain himself had said. How much Alain's indulgence into Cuthbert's mind has warped his friend's desires he will never know. There is no going back.

For now, Alain assuages his guilt by returning to the thought at hand - how Cuthbert had used him. As his conversation with his father helps him organize his thoughts, it has become suddenly so clear that Cuthbert originally cultivated his friendship because he thought Roland would benefit - either from his touch or from some other quality Cuthbert's keen, young mind observed. What was it he had said that day that all this started? “He likes you and he sees your strength; he just doesn't have the words to share it.” And Alain, not realizing the full extent of his own perception, had replied, “That's what you're for.” 

Cuthbert had cultivated Jamie, too, Alain realizes. He should have guessed the first time he suspected that they might have practiced archery together. He has been Roland's right hand forever, grooming those few among their ka-mates, who could fill the gaps in his and Roland's skills and strengthen their future ka-tet. It occurs to Alain now that, by the time they had left Mejis, he had been ready to welcome Susan, too, and not just as a tangent - Roland's lover. It was Cuthbert's hand, not Roland's cock, that pulled her close enough for Alain’s touch to feel her at the edge of their ka-tet. What would have happened had she lived? Alain remembers the familiar, warm arousal he had felt blossom within her when Cuthbert looked into her eyes and smiled and pictures Roland summoning his friend into their bed to please them both and Cuthbert, still a virgin when they journeyed back to Gilead, inexperienced but happy to oblige. A man may do many things with his right hand . . . What Cuthbert has or has not done in Roland's bed matters no more than the teases and favors it has pleased him to share with Alain. The fact remains that he initially submitted first his mind and then his body to Alain’s out of his loyalty to Roland. In Cuthbert's mind, he never had a choice.

“Forgive me, father, I was searching for the right word and was lost in thought.” Alain smiles grimly.

“The conclusion we are drawing towards is not one you should rush to reach,” Christopher Johns assures him.

Alain nods. “No, say true, but I think that I will reach no other. I am not quick witted, but I Know so much, and given time . . .” He clears his throat. “What I did that day to Cuthbert was an intimate intrusion I have never dared inflict on any other person, friend or foe. I was so taken with his strength of mind, his cunning, and his charm - he was so eager to transform the more pleasant aspects of the test into something we could call upon at any time - he was bleeding, but he smiled and embraced me . . .” Alain laughs at himself. All of his reservations about hurting his pretty friend had melted right away at the promise of a smile. “Fuck. We were thirteen. It never occurred to me to wonder where he might have come by such a skill.”

14

Alain summons Robert Allgood in the middle of the night.

He finishes his pastry, clasps his father's hand, and walks back to East Tower Lawn, this time with a hat in addition to his cloak. He does not dare wear gloves; he might need his bare hands. He sits again on the dew-damp grass, closes his eyes, and reaches out to Cuthbert's father. He feels his mind - he sleeps, but fitfully. He dreams of Cuthbert screaming. Asleep, his conscious thoughts and real experiences are inaccessible, but his dream is unguarded, and Alain slips into it with ease. Dream Robert stares at him; Cuthbert, who is an image, not a conscious mind (Alain reminds himself again and again) continues to cry out in agony.

“Help him!” Robert pleads.

“I can't,” Alain says truthfully, “He is not real. Wake up.”

“My son! You love my son! You must help him.” Robert does not realize he is dreaming.

“Your son is safe in the Southern Territories with his friend Jamie DeCurry. This is a dream; you can only help yourself. Wake up.”

This time, dream Robert is silent. He cocks his head at Alain - a gesture reminiscent of his son - and blinks. As he wakes, Alain is ejected from the dream.

Alain gathers his mental strength and reaches out again. Robert Allgood’s mind is open, as he guessed it would be.

“I need to speak with you,” he tells him, “Come downstairs.” He leads Cuthbert's father out to East Tower Lawn.

As Allgood rounds the side of the tower Alain ends the link between their minds and looks up. “Come sit with me,” he says.

Allgood sits. “You were really in my dream.”

“I was.”

“Impressive.”

Alain shrugs. “Have you been here before?”

“Not even as a boy,” Allgood admits, “My rooms have always faced the other way; I assumed the hillside dropped right off. I am not surprised that Cuthbert found it, though.”

“He comes by his wit honestly. I think you share some other skills, as well.”

“I don't know what you mean.” This seems to be the truth.

Alain smiles flatly. “Roland does not benefit. Cuthbert will feel betrayed when he finds out.”

“I don't know what you mean.” This time it is a lie, and Alain can feel it.

“There is another thing you have in common,” Alain muses, “Try to be more evasive like you were this afternoon. Cuthbert is very good at it. I can never get the truth out of him when he does not want to tell it.”

“Are you calling me a liar, Alain Johns?” Allgood tries to project an air of authority and fails. He feels insecure, and Alain Knows it.

“I am calling you a bad liar.”

“In the interrogation earlier . . .”

“You evaded, and I felt nothing out of place. But I have been in your son's mind. I am not as quick as he is, though. It took me time to realize my mistake.”

Robert Allgood starts to speak, but Alain stops him.

“I think you killed Steven Deschain,” Alain accuses, “and I think we both know why. I don't have proof, but I will get it. Confess, or I will look into your mind in earnest.”

Allgood holds his gaze. “Do what you will.”

Alain sighs. He looks out at the Bergher Forest, a sea of rolling, textured blackness in the light of the thin crescent moon. Then, he moves with sudden quickness and takes hold of Allgood’s hand. Cuthbert’s father gasps, and Alain thrusts his mind inside the older man's.

It is dark and hot. Alain and Robert Allgood stand on a round, stone floor surrounded by a sea of fire.

Alain whistles. He wonders whether this grim welcome is for him or whether Allgood’s mind is like this all the time. The mental impression he received from him in Roland’s interrogation may have been incomplete, but his self hatred had been evident and true.

Ignoring Allgood for the moment, Alain circles the floor. He cannot see anything beyond the fire, but he can feel its searing heat. “I do not want to hurt you,” he tells Allgood, “but I will.” He stops pacing and looks him in the eye. 

Allgood holds his ground. A nasty feeling seeps into Alain’s chest; this man wants him to hurt him. He presses his lips together hard and spins around, turning his attention to the fire. After a moment, he kneels down and places his hands at the edge of the stone floor. His skin begins to burn, but he persists. He gathers his mind and blows down on his hands. A chilly breeze turns the floor icy. The imaginary wounds on his hands are soothed. They heal. Alain closes his eyes and pushes harder with his mind. Spreading forward from his hands, the seething fire is doused. A path appears between the flames. Alain stands and follows it. He does not need to turn around to Know that Allgood’s manifestation of himself is haunting him as he walks past the fire into darkness. 

Alain’s mind is focused on Steven Deschain’s murder. He strides forth with confidence, and the darkness resolves into a torch-lit hallway of hewn stone, smooth from many years of human use. After a moment, he hears the ghost of Cuthbert’s laughter somewhere up ahead of him and to the left. He quickens his pace, then halts abruptly when the laugh dissolves into speech.

“My stars, Alain!” Cuthbert exclaims. His voice echoes in the hard, stone corridor. His next words are spoken more softly, and Alain cannot catch them.

Then, he hears the unintelligible murmur of his own voice - odd through someone else’s ears - but he has heard the echo of it in Cuthbert’s mind before, and he recognizes it immediately. This is not an invention of Robert Allgood’s mind; it is a memory. Compelled, as Allgood had been when he had overheard them, Alain creeps forward until the rolling hum of Cuthbert’s voice can be distinguished into words.

“. . . It isn’t his cock he’s so pleased to see me pleasing. Perhaps I could have gotten away with getting on my knees for Roland.”

Entrenched in Allgood’s memory, Alain feels Robert’s flesh go cold and crawl with chilly sweat as blood drains from his face. He had been a faithless fool to let Steven convince him that his son was Roland’s catamite - not that it mattered now; they had turned him into much, much worse. Imagine how pleased sweet Bert might be to bend over for his dearest friend instead of for these monsters! This thought dispels the chill: he burns with self disgust. And now, suddenly, Robert suspects there might have been no favors of the flesh between the two at all. Does that make his actions even worse?

“I think not!” When Alain’s voice comes it is louder, jarring. “I’d wager that he thinks you do that now.” This last is grim and sullen. 

The Johns boy is jealous, Robert realizes. Roland may not have touched his son, but this boy has, and Robert had encouraged it. Had they continued on as lovers ever since, Cuthbert growing more and more detached and Alain Johns seething with jealousy and disgust as his pretty friend gives his body away to every traitor in the land?

There is a long pause in their conversation here, and Robert/Alain tiptoes closer, unsure whether they have actually stopped talking or whether their exchange has just been lowered to a whisper. 

“And what do you think?” Cuthbert asks at last. They had been silent in the interval after all, and now Robert is too close. He freezes. This hall is high in the fortifications of the inner castle keep, and from here, he can see the entrance to the arrow slit alcove where his son and his friend are hidden. 

“I’ve never been sure,” Alain replies. Robert’s heart breaks. He sees a movement in the darkness as his son moves to touch his friend’s (his lover’s?) face. Cuthbert sees him.

“What say you, father? Would Roland like me better if I dressed like this?”

Robert liked it better when Cuthbert had forbidden them to speak upon this subject. Sickened, he watches his son skip out into the open dressed in silk and suede. His hard nipples show through the thin fabric of his shirt, and Robert’s first inclination is to pull his little boy - taller than he is now - against his body and rub his arms and back to warm him up. That instinct is strong, and it is only Cuthbert’s coldly spoken, “Well?” that stays his hand. Robert remembers that he - alone in all of Gilead, perhaps - has been forbidden to touch.

“I think he’d weep if he saw this,” Robert says, not sure whether he means the lad’s taunting, flirtatious behavior, his foppish and suggestive dress, or the situation that has led to both.

“Oh father,” Cuthbert sighs, “You do not know him very well. He’d put a bullet in my head.”

“Bert,” the Johns boy whispers. He touches Robert’s son on his right arm, which Robert may no longer do, and steers him out of sight.

“And put me out my misery,” Alain murmurs aloud in Robert Allgood’s head. He shakes off Allgood’s remembered emotions and turns to face his manifestation of his present self.

Allgood does not look well. How much damage has Alain inflicted in order to get this far?

“I was there, in case you’ve already forgotten. Your solution did your son no favors, though. You look like shit. This would be easier if you would help instead of hinder.”

“Why should I make it easy?”

“It is not my place to punish you for what you allowed happen to your son or for what you did to your own dinh because of it.”

“You love him, though. You were not wrong; he’ll feel betrayed a second time if he finds out. I need to make you understand.”

Alain wants to say he understands already, but he doesn’t. The last thing Cuthbert would want was for the fallout from his soul rending, secret sacrifice to compromise Roland’s position. “Show me, then. It does not have to hurt.” 

Allgood smirks skeptically, again reminding him of Cuthbert, and Alain realizes his mistake immediately.

“What I am doing does not have to hurt,” Alain corrects himself. 

Allgood seems to consider. “Are you my son’s lover?” he asks.

Alain is surprised into a laugh. He echoes what his slightly younger self had said in Allgood’s memory: “I’ve never been sure.” Allgood does not comment right away, so he elaborates, “Anything there might have been between us was contaminated by what you and Steven did. And my father. And Vannay. And by things that I did, too - things he let me do inside his mind when we were young and stupid. We’ve only . . .” Alain trails off and flutters his fingers, less willing to be crass in front of his friend’s father than he was when speaking to his own. He laughs at himself again. On a whim, he lets a fragment of one of his own memories out from behind the high walls in his mind. 

Sixteen-year-old Cuthbert materializes in the hallway, sitting on the floor and leaning up against the wall. In Alain’s memory, he had been leaning up against his mind’s version of East Tower. The purple-brown impressions of Bracken Corbett’s fingers mar his slender neck. One of his hands is raised in a dismissive gesture, and his wrist is bruised and bloodied from rope burns. There is a real smile on his lips, but it does not quite reach his eyes. He speaks. “And fuck me, yes. You’re not allowed if you can’t say it.” The image fades away.

“I said it, and I did it, too. But we only . . .” he forces the word out: “fucked that once.”

Robert Allgood stares at the spot where Alain’s memory of his son had sat. “Surely he was not so badly injured still by then.”

“He was in his own mind,” Alain snaps, “Show me the rest, or I will force you to.”

Allgood continues to stare at the now empty hall. Alain storms off. He focuses his mind on Deschain’s murder once again, and he can feel the hallway stretch and curve as he opens up a path. The hallway ends in a door: Steven Deschain’s meeting hall. Alain barges inside.

“Perhaps you should have brought your son in on your plan,” Vannay is saying, “After all, the boy is under his direct command. He has been ruled by you before.”

“You promised you would not!” cries Robert, “Will you take everything from him?”

“Roland has a cold mind much like mine,” Deschain reasons, “But there is still too much emotion broiling up inside it. I know not what the consequences might be if I were to disillusion him with his too close friend and with myself in one fell stroke. I admit I was too rash in the beginning. Possibly, I might have convinced him to support me then, but he was sulking, far too wrapped up in his guilt and in his pretty, joking friend to be a reasonable judge. Since that time, Cuthbert has proved to be a valuable asset in these things. We cannot afford to lose his skills.”

“He said we’d burn in hell for this. He’ll break before too long,” Robert objects.

“Then he will break, but not yet for some time. I have not been kind in my assessment, but he is a gunslinger. He will last longer than most, and, when he breaks, he falls in service to his city like any man who dies in battle. We will send Roland to Kottle’s place. She is old and hard of hearing. I would rather have her be fully absorbed in something else, but . . .” he shrugs. “Alain Johns we can trust to keep our secret. He is too devoted to Robert’s boy to betray him even to his dinh.”

A moment later, the door opens behind Alain, and Roland and Alain himself march in. He skirts around these images and slips out the closing door.

Allgood is standing there. He looks more pale and exhausted even than before. “You saw him after he came back,” he says, “I always wished, if he could not be serious, he would be more subdued. I got my wish. It was like he was dead.”

“I saw,” Alain replies. He is not inclined to share any details of their interaction. 

“Deschain should not have given him hope! How could he send him on a military mission and then call him back to be a whore?”

“Shall we blame Jamie DeCurry, then? He followed us on the Spencer mission, and his reasons for requesting Cuthbert’s company in the Southern Territories were twofold. Coming back was Cuthbert’s own mistake. Both of them should have known better. Jamie should have come instead.”

Allgood shakes his head. “It would have made no difference.” He steps past Alain, and Alain turns to watch him open up the door. At last, he helps him willingly. Alain follows Robert Allgood through the door and into Steven Deschain’s chambers.

Deschain is in his shirtsleeves, poring over documents and maps. Allgood stands behind him, peering over his shoulder.

“If Roland and his ka-tet can hold the South for us we’ll deal Farson a great blow,” Deschain is saying, “Then, we will concentrate here,” he points, “Quintus Keller is a close associate of Kotter’s, and she proved so entrenched with Farson it is scarcely possible he’s not. It will be easy to seduce him - he spends half his nights in low town, and he is not known to discriminate between the boys and girls as long as they are pretty. Your son . . .”

Robert draws his knife and stabs him in the back. 

Alain pulls out of his head. 

East Tower Lawn is cold and damp. Beside Alain, Robert Allgood shivers. Dark circles have formed under his bloodshot eyes. Tear tracks stain his cheeks, and his nose is bleeding. Alain hands him a handkerchief and regards him silently as he cleans up. Like Cuthbert, he is slender and narrow shouldered with brown hair and large, dark eyes. He is a smaller man, however, compact instead of lanky, and on him the eyes seem almost bug-like, not effeminate or beautiful. His graying beard hides a weak chin. He is not striking like Cuthbert, but his build and eyes make him look younger than he is, and Alain can easily imagine Cuthbert’s mother - a great beauty, still, whose bone structure her son inherited - being taken with his boyish looks. He wonders whether theirs had been a love match. Now that he has thought of her, Alain’s heart aches for Cuthbert’s mother most of all. Allgood hands the hanky back.

“I forgive you,” Alain says, “Not for the misplaced shame and lack of faith that started this affair but for the act that ended it.”

“It was a grave mistake.”

“Say true, but I do understand.” He takes a deep breath. “What shall I tell Roland?”

“Tell him nothing. I will not ask you to lie for me, even for Cuthbert’s sake. I will go to him now, tonight.” Alain nods, and Robert Allgood rises. He looks down at his son’s friend. His maybe lover. “Cuthbert must not know.”

Alain looks up at him. “I will not speak of it to him,” he promises. But Cuthbert is clever; he will figure it out.


	8. Eighteen, in eighteen parts: XV-XVIII

15

Alain does not get any sleep that night. He barely gets the chance to try. Scarcely an hour after he retires to his room, the signal comes from the Southern Territories: Farson’s army is on the advance. The messenger who roused him from his bed had visited with Roland first, so his dinh already has their horses saddled by the time Alain has dressed and reached the stables. Robert Allgood stands by, grim and pallid, as the two young men ride off into the night.

“He spoke to you?” Alain calls out as soon as they have passed beyond the city walls.

“He did,” Roland confirms, “He’ll wait.”

By the time they reach the old mill by the river, the first fingers of dawn are beginning to stretch into the low horizon. Even though Alain has been in Cuthbert’s head for nearly half an hour, he does not see his friend until he moves, separating his slender silhouette from the shadows of the near dawn darkness. He is hatless, his dark hair aiding in his camouflage, and he has streaked his forehead, cheeks and nose with charcoal to interrupt the relative light color of his face. His hands are gloved, and all his clothes are dark; he is still wearing the black jacket that he wore when he left Gilead. 

“You are ready for a midnight raid, I see,” Roland comments, “How close is Farson’s army, would you say?”

“I wouldn’t.” Cuthbert smiles darkly, and his teeth gleam in the early morning light. “We sent our lookouts just five days ago, and their chaperone has not returned. We have no way of knowing where the signal started. They could be days from here or hours.”

Roland nods. “And Jamie?”

“On the ramparts.”

“Then I shall go and meet him. Farson’s troops will not all be on horseback. Even if the signal started only halfway to the pass we should have almost a day before they reach us.”

“That is our thought as well. Jamie and I have been at high alert, but we have the villagers sleeping in shifts.”

“Good. I wish to take a gamble. Alain, retire with Cuthbert to the tent and see if you can find them. Send me your message, then rest. I will have the horses seen to and then meet with Jamie and stand watch. We will rest in shifts, as well, while we can still afford it.”

Cuthbert nods. He squeezes Roland’s hand briefly, then bows, fist to forehead, and departs. Alain takes leave of Roland and follows him into their tent.

“Here’s a thought,” Cuthbert says, smiling. He peels off his gloves and coat, unbuckles his guns, flops down onto his own cot, and kicks off his boots.

“Very practical,” Alain comments, “It’s straight to business, then?”

“I’d say. I’ll need every moment’s rest that I can grab when we are done.”

“Say true. I’m sorry.”

“Do not be. ‘Twas my idea, and it’s helped already.”

“I know you do not like it.”

Cuthbert shrugs. “I dislike it less than many things I’ve done. And being in your head . . . You are so often inside mine. There is a thrill to it, however glad it makes me that I do not have the touch myself.”

Alain nods, sits on the floor beside Cuthbert’s cot, and folds an arm behind his head. Cuthbert takes his hand. Their position is the reverse of when they entered Roland’s mind in Mejis, and Alain’s groin tingles at the memory. He pulls Cuthbert’s consciousness into his own. 

They are embracing in the courtyard. They are in the air above the mill. Roland climbs the ramparts and Jamie greets him with a bow followed by an outstretched hand. Along the Silk Road, none of the children that they sent to watch are at their posts. 

“We instructed them to leave,” Cuthbert reminds him in his mind, “They have hidden in the countryside if they were there at all.”

There is no time to look for them; every drop of Cuthbert’s energy is precious. Alain pushes onward. He finds the army just this side of the pass. The last night’s camp abandoned, they are on the march. Three days’ distance, maybe, from the bridge. A cursory inspection of the group suggests no captives and no knowledge of the signal or the specifics of their fortifications. However, as Cuthbert and Jamie had suspected, they are aware that gunslingers have been sent. Yet, they are not concerned; they know these gunslingers are young, and they know Steven Deschain is dead. Gilead shows weakness, and they think the new boy leader will be too tied up in politics and scandal to devote any additional resources here. It has been years since the lucky route in Mejis, and when they drove that army into the thinny none had been left to tell the tale, so they underestimate Roland and his ka-tet. They underestimate the villagers, too; the number of trained fighters they will encounter is far greater than the generals suspect - their spies did not consider women when they gave their count. This is enough. 

Gently, Alain gives Cuthbert back his mind and reaches out to Roland instead. When he has passed this information on, he rises to his knees and looks down at Cuthbert. There are charcoal smudges on his pillow from where he must have turned his head, but now he seems to be unconscious. Alain rises and removes his cloak, jacket, and guns and crosses to his own cot.

“Stay,” Cuthbert murmurs.

“I am staying,” Alain tells him, “My cot is just right here.”

Cuthbert laughs sleepily. His speech is slightly slurred. “Come back, then. Was there not something you wanted to do?”

Alain looks at him. He has not moved. Alain can think of lots of things he wants, but . . . “I don’t know what you mean.”

Beneath the charcoal, in the pale dawn light, Cuthbert seems to flush. “No?” he asks, “Well, never mind then.” With the slow and heavy manner of someone who is half asleep, he rolls himself onto his side to face the wall.

It is tempting to excuse this behavior to the confusion of near sleep, but Cuthbert was surprisingly lucid last time Alain borrowed the strength of his mind, however exhausted he had seemed. And that blush was especially odd, uncharacteristic. He had followed it with a dismissal. Was he embarrassed? Was he asking . . .? 

“Bert,” Alain prods softly, wondering if his friend has slipped yet into sleep.

“Yes, Al?” he mumbles.

“It would not kill you to be more direct.”

Cuthbert laughs into his pillow and rolls onto his back. His eyes are open now, but droopy, and he looks at Alain, a small, self deprecating smile on his lips. “You planted something rather tempting in my head. It does not matter. You are allowed to tease as well, you know.”

Alain remembers now. He sits on the edge of Cuthbert’s cot and lays a hand on his friend’s chest. “I was not teasing. I have had much on my mind - two, three days ago seems so long now. I fantasized this, did you know? Well, something like it. I fantasized you knew just what you wanted and you took it.”

“Mmmm,” Cuthbert half hums, half moans and stretches, sleepy but so sensual. He blinks slowly. “In your fantasy I wanted you.”

“In one of them. I had one where you wanted Jamie, too.”

“What? You and Jamie both together?”

Alain goes hot. “No,” he chokes (he is imagining it now, though), “I had one about you and Jamie because I could feel the way that you were bound by ka when you were far away; the feel of that is different than when all of us are close. Then I had one where you wanted me. I liked that one better, say true, but the other one was alright, too. Because it was about you wanting something. You never tell me what you want.”

“I want you to suck my cock.” Cuthbert is staring up at him, his cheeks red underneath his charcoal, his dark eyes wide and wanting, his wet lips barely parted.

“Gods, yes,” Alain sighs. He climbs onto the bottom of the cot and straddles Cuthbert’s legs.

Cuthbert has changed his trousers since Alain saw him last. These are heavy, dark brown canvas with buttons instead of laces. He opens them. Unlike on all those missions, where easy access was the key, Cuthbert is wearing undergarments. These are his regular clothes. This is not a game. He wants him. 

Alain crawls forward to look Cuthbert in the eye. “Whatever you want, whenever you want it. Me or anybody else. I love you.” He leans down and kisses Cuthbert, who responds eagerly, his thin lips soft and ready, his tongue languid but responsive.

“I love you too, you idiot,” he says when Alain pulls away.

“I know,” Alain smiles, “I am not that stupid.” He has wondered more than once if Cuthbert feels romantic love - whether he differentiates it from the loyal bond he feels to his ka-tet - but Alain has no doubt that Cuthbert loves him in his way, perhaps almost as deeply as he loves their dinh. He tugs on Cuthbert’s pants and underwear, and Cuthbert raises his hips and arches his back. His cock, already hard, springs forth. Alain moans.

“Are you certain?” Cuthbert asks.

Alain’s mouth fills with saliva, and he closes it on Cuthbert’s tip. Cuthbert gasps and then falls silent, the tension in his muscles and the throbbing hardness of his cock the only indications that Alain is driving him wild. 

Alain is inexperienced, and, when he tries to swallow more, he chokes. 

“Use your hands,” Cuthbert suggests. 

“You would not need to,” Alain pouts.

Cuthbert stills, and his erection wilts at this reminder of the true extent of his experience. 

“Oh, Bert. I’m sorry. I . . .” Alain stumbles over the inadequate words.

Cuthbert cuts him off with a gesture of his hand. He takes a deep breath. “Let’s use that to our advantage, shall we? Breathe through your nose and pull back if you start to choke. Use your hands and tongue. And . . . look at me.”

Alain drags his shameful and embarrassed gaze from a space somewhere near Cuthbert’s elbow up to his earnest face.

Cuthbert nods fractionally. Although he is still plainly exhausted from his time in aid of Alain’s touch he enunciates very clearly. “Stop if you don’t like it.”

Alain nods. There is no way he’s going to stop, however difficult it is. He wants to please his friend so much. 

“Promise,” Cuthbert presses, “I do not want to be one of them, either.”

“I promise. I want this very badly, Bert, but I will stop if it’s too much.”

“Fine. Kiss me badly, and let’s try again.” He musters a small smile.

Alain leans up to kiss him again, this time more gently, then he turns his attention back to Cuthbert’s cock, lying half hard against the dark curls bunched around his groin. He takes it in his mouth again and moans to feel it grow and stiffen there. He chokes a bit and moves back to the tip, sliding one hand up and down the shaft and using the other to stroke and cup Cuthbert’s balls. Cuthbert keens softly and arches his back. His cock pulses against Alain’s lips, and he sucks it in deeper again and begins to bob up and down. One of Cuthbert’s hands settles on his head, warming his ear and cheek. Alain releases Cuthbert’s sack and runs his other hand up his friend’s hip until he clasps it. He pulls back to the tip again and jerks him swiftly until his hips begin to buck, then he lowers his mouth down again, and Cuthbert thrusts up once and comes, spilling sticky, salty, slightly bitter into Alain’s throat.

Now, Alain does choke. He pulls back quickly, sits up straight, and covers his mouth with his hand. There is a water bag hanging over one of the chairs by their meeting table, and Alain rushes to it and gulps down enough to rid his throat of cloying semen and approaching bile.

When he looks back, Cuthbert has put his cock away, and he is leaning on a wobbly elbow, his large eyes bright with concern. “Alright?” he whispers.

“Yes. More than alright.” 

Cuthbert appears unconvinced. 

Alain sits on his cot again and holds his hand. He sends him the raw memory of his satisfaction at giving Cuthbert pleasure. “More than alright,” he repeats.

“Oh. Good.”

Alain leans down and kisses him again, and Cuthbert relaxes gratefully back onto the cot. “You should sleep,” Alain tells him.

“I know. I should do something for you . . .”

Alain shakes his head. “Some other time. Whenever you want. If you want. Not otherwise.”

“Alright,” Cuthbert murmurs. He closes his eyes and sleeps.

Alain retires to his cot and sleeps as well.

A few hours later, Roland joins them. Alain begins to rise to take his place, but Roland stops him with a hand on his chest.

“Rest a while longer, then go and relieve Jamie,” he whispers, careful not to disturb Cuthbert, who is sleeping like the dead, “Only one of us need watch until the time is nearer.”

Alain nods and slides back into sleep. He dreams of Cuthbert standing tall against a bright blue sky. A bullet strikes him in the face, and he collapses. Alain wakes, sweating, with a gasp. He would be hard put to describe it, but he Knows the difference between imaginary dreams and real ones sent by the touch. This one was real. It happens just before the dream that he is used to, Alain realizes with a start. He does not think he will get used to this one, though, even if he Knows the cost is only Cuthbert’s eye. He has yet to see his death. He hopes he never will. 

Still recovering, Cuthbert sleeps unnaturally soundly on his cot, but Roland’s eyes are open. Alain grimaces at him, rises, bows, and slips out into the daylight to give Jamie some rest.

16

The sun is setting when Cuthbert arrives to relieve Alain in turn. He has scrubbed most of the charcoal from his face and looks only slightly wan, now. He walks with a spring in his step. This time of year, the days are warmer than the chilly nights, and Cuthbert is in shirtsleeves and a leather waistcoat. His long, oiled suede jacket hangs over one arm. 

Jamie’s fortification consists of several levels of reinforced embankment fitted here and there with crude parapets to give their archers cover. Cuthbert weaves his way up to Alain’s position at the top, stopping to greet the villagers at every rampart with a smile. At the tier below Alain’s, he falls into conversation with a comely woman in her twenties. Alain remembers her from his first visit - she is one of the better archers of the group. She touches Cuthbert’s arm and cants her body towards him, and Cuthbert responds by running his eyes over her hips and breasts before he rests them on her face where they belong. He smiles at her - something in between his sweetest smile and a predatory grin. He is flirting, Alain realizes. He grins at the woman’s husband, too - a huge, bald man of indeterminate age (Thirty? Forty? Fifty?), who reminds Alain a little bit of Cort. Not so keen an archer, his impressive strength suggests he will be valuable as a bludgeoner once the fight is hand-to-hand. The giant man claps slender Cuthbert on the back and booms a laugh. Cuthbert smiles wider and continues on his way, vaulting easily onto the topmost rampart.

The rising wind signals the setting of the sun. It is a winter wind, blowing from the mountains far to the northwest, and Cuthbert shivers and pauses to pull on his leather coat before he sits next to Alain. He jams his hands into his pockets. 

“You are a flirt!” Alain exclaims, “Scarce a day outside of Gilead and you are batting eyelashes at pretty girls.”

“Whatever I want, whenever I want it. You or anybody else. Is that not what you said?”

Alain blushes and then pales, a jealousy he had convinced himself he would no longer feel threatening to overwhelm his judgment. He looks sharply at Cuthbert and finds him smirking, one eyebrow raised sardonically. Whatever he sees in Alain’s face puts an end to his mocking expression immediately.

“I am a flirt,” he agrees solemnly. His smile creeps halfway back across his face. “Did you forget? Do you think yon gargantuan fellow would not try to snap me like a twig if he thought me anything more?”

Alain looks back down toward the couple on the tier below. They have cuddled close together in the face of the approaching night. “I do not want to tell you what I thought,” he mutters.

“Don’t, then,” Cuthbert says. There is no malice in his voice. “But do not think it, either.” He lays a long, slim hand on Alain’s kneecap. “It is your turn to rest.”

“I would rather sit here for a moment with you, first. I am glad that you are feeling better.”

“Suit yourself. I won’t pretend I have not missed your company.” Cuthbert squeezes Alain’s knee, then buries his hands in his pockets again. Like the toggle buttons, these are a recent addition - patch pockets in a similar but not identical thin leather sewn onto the outside of the coat. Cuthbert has, thus far, avoided any mention of Steven Deschain’s murder or his ka-mates’ investigation. Alain wonders whether he suspects the truth.

“Those pockets are a good addition,” Alain says instead of asking what he really wants. 

“Aye,” Cuthbert agrees, “My mother helped me sew them. I am hopeless, still, with stitching.”

“What exactly did you tell her?” 

Cuthbert laughs a little. “Oh, I said I’d bought the jacket so I could impress the girls and then thought better of it later. I oiled it up myself and carved the toggles and braided the ropes and cut the pockets out of an old waistcoat that did not fit me anymore and then asked her to help me sew it all together. ‘Help you?’ said she, ‘Give it here, you hopeless boy. Carve me another set of buttons just like those and we shall call the matter fair.’”

Alain smiles at the story, but his smile does not last. “She has not guessed . . .”

“She gave me more than just her pretty face, if that’s what you’re implying. She knows better than to seek out answers when she knows she will not like them.”

“You hope,” Alain finishes. He gleans this from the front of Cuthbert’s mind.

“I hope for many things, say true. Am I a fool? I know I have been thought so.”

“Not by me,” Alain replies.

To his surprise, Cuthbert guffaws. Laughing, he throws his head back until it hits the slant of the embankment. His smile is sweet and crooked.

“Not often, then,” Alain admits, leaning back to match his friend. He lowers his voice to a whisper. “You know I love you dearly.”

Cuthbert grins. “That is neither here nor there in terms of my own foolishness . . . unless it proves you to be the greater fool and therefore not a worthy judge.”

“Do you say I am a fool for loving you?” Alain is not inclined to smile back, but he attempts to all the same. 

Cuthbert is not deceived, and his own joking expression dies away. “Perhaps I’ve played you for a fool.” 

The sun has set, and, as the light seeps from their surroundings, the outline of Alain’s own face shows for a moment vividly in the deep, brown irises of Cuthbert’s eyes. In the next instant, evening fades into night, and Alain sees only Cuthbert, his dark eyes almost black in light too dim to render a reflection. 

“Perhaps,” Alain allows at last. He is careful to keep his tone light. This is the closest they are like to come to an earnest discussion of the way that Cuthbert drew him into their ka-tet for Roland’s sake. Alain is glad to hear Cuthbert’s admission, however oblique, but he has no hard feelings, now. “Perhaps,” he says again and shrugs.

Cuthbert huffs a little laugh and turns his face away. “Love is a game for fools, they say,” he remarks to the darkening sky.

17

The battle, when it comes, is bloody. Many of the villagers fall, including the comely woman Bert had flirted with. An arrow tears the skin from one of Jamie’s cheeks and takes a chunk out of his earlobe, leaving him with a red gash across his face to match the strawberry stain upon his hand. Farson’s losses are far worse. His troops bottleneck upon the bridge over the deep, swift flowing Gyl, and many fall to arrows, leaving their comrades to clamber over their bodies on their way to storm the ramparts. In the end, the dregs of Farson’s army flee, the crude fortifications hold, and the day is won. The Southern villagers stay loyal, but there are fewer of them now, and they have seen their fields trampled and their friends’ blood spilled. The harvest suffers. Gilead’s storerooms will not be full this winter.

Roland is not blind to grim reality, but he praises the villagers for their fortitude and loyalty and commends them for their sacrifice. He calls his gunslingers together in a vigil for the dead, and they linger in the South until they can receive the children, who had manned the Silk Road signal posts, in a ceremony of honor; most of the children have at least one parent to return to. He sends a herald to Gilead to announce the victory and the imminent return of his ka-tet and leaves the villagers with solemn instructions to hold watch upon the ramparts at the mill and keep the signal line to Gilead in place. He promises to send aid at the first sign of trouble. It is an empty promise, Alain Knows - they have won the battle, but Gilead is crumbling. Before long, there will be no gunslingers to call upon for help.

But that time has not yet come, and so Roland returns, victorious, to Gilead, and Cuthbert blows the Horn of Eld as they approach the city gate.

18

There is no celebration in the traditional sense, but, by the time they reach the gate, Alain is already dizzy from the air of giddy tension and morbid excitement thrumming through the city. The citizens’ collective mood is only partly caused by Roland’s recent victory. The murder of Steven Deschain hangs heavy over Gilead, and the returning gunslingers are greeted with the news that Robert Allgood has been murdered, too. And yet, excitement has eclipsed the double tragedy: the traitor has been caught red handed. 

The loyal guards hold Roland’s eye as they describe the man whom they discovered standing over Robert Allgood’s body, smoking gun in hand. They tell him that the wretch had been a servant in the castle, who had sympathized with Farson’s cause and single-handedly devised a plot to assassinate Deschain and Allgood (“and maybe others, too - who knows?”). They do not look at Cuthbert. 

They do not look at Cuthbert, but Cuthbert watches them with hard, gunslinger eyes. He closes up his mind and follows Roland and Alain to the East Tower. Silent Jamie squeezes Cuthbert’s shoulder once and then remains behind to see to all four horses. 

Robert Allgood has been dead less than a day. Roland’s herald reached the city just before the telltale gunshot echoed through the castle grounds, and so the victim is still lying on his back in the Allgood family quarters. A gaping, bloody hole yawns, just off-center, in his forehead, and his white nightshirt has absorbed a great deal of the pooling blood. His guns are nowhere to be seen. 

Alain stares at the wound. Of course, it’s not impossible that Allgood was surprised, but Alain strongly suspects the wound was self-inflicted. No competent spy would have chosen to kill him thus. While Deschain’s murder had been quiet, Allgood’s death was not. Castle Gilead is crawling with guards and home to several gunslingers. Any gunshot fired within the castle grounds would garner quick response; for a traitor, it would carry a death sentence. And that is what the man arrested will receive. 

“I am sorry that your loss should echo mine so soon,” Roland tells Cuthbert. Alain is almost certain that he means this, but his next words are an outright lie: “If only we had managed to detect the traitor in our midst before we were called South.”

Cuthbert does not answer. He stares down at his father’s body. Alain can only guess what he is thinking. “Where are his guns?” he asks.

“Your mother has them, sai Allgood, to be presented to you,” one of the guards answers.

Cuthbert tears his dark brown eyes from where they had been resting on his father’s matching dead ones. He looks up and smiles tightly at the guard. “Say thankya.” He turns and nods to Roland, acknowledging his words at last. 

Roland sets his hand on Cuthbert’s shoulder, and Cuthbert looks down at it, averting his gaze from Roland’s sharp, blue eyes again.

“I would have you be the one to send the traitor to his final fate,” Roland says softly, as though the order is a comfort or a gift.

Cuthbert looks up sharply, still wearing that tight smile. He nods again. “My hand is yours. I will wield the tools of justice in your name.”

Roland raises his hand from Cuthbert’s shoulder until his knuckles rest against his jaw just to the right side of his chin. “In both our names,” he corrects gently.

Cuthbert’s irises wander back down to the body on the floor. He fingers the horn at his hip, then looks straight in Roland’s eyes and nods a third and final time. “In both our names. With honor.” The backs of Roland’s fingers brush his cheek.

Alain longs to learn what clever Cuthbert might have guessed about the truth of the two murders, but he does not press. He keeps the touch away from Cuthbert’s closed up consciousness out of respect for his friend’s grief and out of dread. And so, he has no real indication of what Cuthbert knows or guesses until four days later when they are preparing Roland’s patsy for his fate. 

The execution promises to be a glorious event. The city is in tumult, outraged by the murders and thrilled by the capture of the culprit and the news of Roland’s victory. The people want blood. Even deep in the dungeons of Castle Gilead, Alain can feel the murmur of the anxious crowd waiting at the gallows, which stands outside the castle walls just at the outskirts of the city. The world has not moved on so far that citizens of Gilead would choose to live among the trophy corpses of the slaughtered, but Alain’s touch tells him that time may be very, very near. 

Together, he and Cuthbert escort the condemned man up out of darkness and into the empty courtyard, where the prisoner’s cart awaits. Then, Alain steps aside, gun drawn, while Cuthbert binds the prisoner’s hands and prepares to send him into darkness once again. 

“Alain, who is this man?” Cuthbert is dressed formally, already clad in long executioner’s gloves. He holds the hood in both his hands, ready to pull it over the condemned man’s head. He is not looking at Alain; his dark eyes crawl across the unfamiliar face of the man it is his job to put to death.

Now that they are in the light, the face of the man in the prisoner’s cart is familiar to Alain: he is the servant who had raped and killed the kitchen boy. For abusing such an unimportant person in a time of war, his punishment would almost certainly have been conscription. Alain is not sorry in the least to see him meet a swifter end. “A murderer,” he tells his friend.

Cuthbert does look at him now, one skeptical brow raised. The prisoner’s eyes begin to glow with hope.

“A murderer,” Alain repeats more firmly. Normally, does not need skin to skin contact to touch Cuthbert’s mind, but Cuthbert is closed off. Carefully, giving him plenty of time to object, he sets his ungloved hand on Cuthbert’s shoulder so that his naked index finger rests just on the warm, bare skin of his friend’s unprotected neck. Through that tiny connection he thrusts the vision that he gleaned from this man’s mind - how he muffled the boy’s screams until he breathed no more. 

Alain cannot see Cuthbert’s face, but he sees the hope die out in the condemned man’s eyes as Bert’s expression changes.

“I see,” Cuthbert intones, still holding the man’s gaze, “You are not the first such man that I have sent to meet his maker, and each time I am gratified to hear the snap of bone.” He begins to slip the hood over the prisoner’s head but stalls to add, “My father made his own fate. Perhaps it was his gift to me that you should share in it.” He pulls the hood down all the way.

No more is said upon the subject until much later that night. The nights are very chilly now, and the courtyard is deserted as Alain makes his way, alone, to East Tower Lawn. He is not planning to meet Cuthbert there, but there he is, sitting crossed legged on the grass, his father’s guns laid out before him on the ground. 

“I cry your pardon,” Alain stammers, “I did not intend to intrude. I thought you would be with your mother.”

Cuthbert bares his teeth at him; Alain hesitates to call the expression a smile. “If I am too much in her company then I shall ask how much she knows,” Cuthbert admits, “We each mourn in our own way. Which do you think it was?” He waves the slender fingers of his right hand over the two guns, just brushing the cold metal and smooth wood.

Robert Allgood was right handed, too. “The one he held in his right hand, I would expect. Do you know which one that was?”

Cuthbert nods. “They were presented in their holsters.” He lifts the gun on his left with his left hand and runs the index finger of his right around the edges of the barrel hole. 

To his disgust, Alain finds himself aroused, remembering sixteen-year-old Cuthbert running that same long, slim finger around the entrance to his body. How wild it had made him! He closes his eyes and concentrates on breathing in the chilly air. Cuthbert is much too occupied in contemplating the means of his father’s demise to realize the flirtatious undertone inherent in the gesture.

Or perhaps he isn’t. When Alain opens his eyes, Cuthbert is looking at him sidelong, one corner of his mouth twisted up into a wicked smirk. He dips the tip of his finger momentarily inside the barrel, then closes his eyes and leans back against East Tower with a plaintive sigh. His smirk is gone - the moment of flirtation fleeting. Without looking, he holsters both the guns at his own hips. Does it help appease his mind to bear the one that likely took his father’s life in his left hand?

Alain steps over his friend’s legs and sits at his right side, away from the offending weapon. “Does it bother you to bear them?” 

“They are my birthright.” Cuthbert’s reply is as ambiguous as ever. Eyes still closed, he folds his knees upright and rests his right hand there, palm up. Tentatively, Alain lowers his left hand until their two palms touch. Cuthbert clasps his hand, winding their fingers together, squeezing hard. He lets Alain into his mind.

Unsurprisingly, his thoughts and feelings are a shambles, but Alain is mightily disheartened to discover one of the emotions swirling round and round is guilt. “This thing is not your fault,” he says.

Cuthbert’s eyes open. He turns his head to face Alain. “Is it not? Because of me, Roland rules a city far more fractured than he should. Will it not fall under his watch?”

“It may be little comfort, but the city has been doomed to fall. I’ve seen it many times.”

“I know, say true. I’ve guessed. But soon?”

“Ka is a cruel mistress. I have seen . . . we will not be old men ere Gilead is far behind us. You cannot blame yourself for Roland’s fate, nor can he be blamed for Gilead’s inevitable doom.”

“A cheery fellow, you. ‘Tis a wonder you can smile at all with all that rattling inside your head - you’ve barely let me touch the tip of it; I see that now. No point to any of it, was there? I suppose, then, I have only Steven Deschain’s blood upon my conscience. And my father’s.”

“And what could you have changed?” counters Alain.

“I could have borne it better,” Cuthbert snaps, “I could have held my tongue!” His face is flushed and his eyes are fire.

Alain tugs on Cuthbert’s hand until it falls off of his knee and into Alain’s lap, still tightly clasped in Alain’s own. He tugs it further, and the rest of Cuthbert’s body follows. His knees swivel and lean against Alain’s thigh, and his face burrows in his shoulder. Alain lets go of his hand and wraps both arms around his back, pulling him closer, wishing he could pull him all the way inside and keep him safe and warm. But that, as ever, is impossible. “He loved you, don’t you know? He did everything wrong but that.”

Cuthbert nods against him, and he shudders with an almost silent sob.

Alain grips the solid warmth of Cuthbert’s bony back and stares down at the dark canopy of the Bergher Forest. Like high-walled Gilead herself, the forest seems deceptively serene when observed from afar. Inside it, Alain Knows, are wild beasts and sneaking criminals, and he has heard rumors of great, conscious trees that swallow men alive. He does not believe these monster trees are real - he would feel them in there, thinking, if they were - but he is familiar with the other dangers of the forest from his survival lessons with Cort and his history lessons with Vannay. The forest was preserved as a training ground for boys born to the gun only after efforts to level it proved too impractical and dangerous. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a phosphorescent gleam pass through a gap between the trees. He reaches out with the touch and receives jarring, mechanical chatter like the scratching of the antique machines surveyors used to use to identify those plots of poisoned ground that can breed only death and mutants. The end is very near indeed. 

He squeezes Cuthbert tighter, and Cuthbert leans closer in response, letting his long nose settle into the crease of Alain’s neck. “I hope you wiped that on my collar, first,” Alain attempts to joke.

Cuthbert’s laugh sounds more like a sob than anything, but Alain has heard enough real sobs just now to know the difference. “I reckon it will need a wash,” he mumbles wetly into Alain’s chest. His hot breath passes through his shirt and makes a damp spot just above his heart.


	9. Nineteen

Before the end of Alain’s nineteenth year, the city of Gilead falls.


	10. Jericho Hill, in three parts

1

Years pass before Alain first sees that fateful hollow place behind the jutting rock. The world has moved on even since Gilead fell, and time is difficult to track. He knows the name of this place now - some months ago a wandering Manni shaman drew a map for them in the dirt and called it Jericho Hill.

“Here we will make our stand,” Roland proclaims when they have reached the top. 

The boulder from Alain’s recurring dream hulks conspicuously two thirds of the way up, slanting steeply down from its jagged crest into a hollow that the wind and rain have carved behind it. 

They camp at the top of the hill. From there they have an excellent view of the approaching army. Everywhere they go an army seems to spawn to face or chase them - chaotic ripples spreading violently out from the splash of Farson’s revolutionary war. Once, people had called him the Good Man. Now, his followers are on the hunt. They will eradicate the four remaining gunslingers, the last vestiges of high walled Gilead and the last age of the world, or they will die trying. Alain, Roland, Cuthbert, and Jamie have made an end to many men, and countless others they have dodged and fled. Now, they have run out of room and run out of time, and not one of them needs Alain’s touch to know it.

At first, when they fled Gilead, there were other refugees with them. Bedraggled soldiers, terrified families, a smattering of other gunslingers. As time wore on, these followers were cut down or settled quietly in other homes in hidden places where they could escape the changes to the world they had known. Now it is just the four of them, ka-tet. 

Alain’s parents had been among the first to go - his mother wanted to return to the Manni, and his father saw no reason not to go with her now that his old order was gone. They begged Alain to join them: lay down his guns and tread a different path - with his touch, he might become a shaman, half blood though he was. It had been jarring to hear these words emerge from his gunslinger father’s lips. Had such a path been open to him all along? He remembered standing before Steven Deschain’s pyre impassively discussing the likelihood of his own early death; perhaps Christopher Johns wished only to prevent that bloody end. And maybe his would be another useless sacrifice, but Alain was bred a gunslinger, and he knew little of the Manni. In the end, he fingered the Turtle brooch upon his shoulder and kissed his parents goodbye. He had pledged to Roland, and he Knew that Cuthbert would follow their dinh forever.

They have reached forever, now. 

Tension thrums all through the touch as they make camp and fix a meager meal. There is water at the bottom of the hill to cook and clean with, and each man’s face is hard and set as he fills his leather water skin with liquid he will never drink. After dinner, Roland speaks to each of them in turn and presses kisses to their lips. This is a parting ceremony; they are still pledged to him, for now, but there will be no time for traditional recitations or sentimental farewells when their ka-tet actually breaks. Then, there will be only blood.

Roland kisses Cuthbert first. Their kiss is confident and tender. After all these years, Alain is still uncertain whether they are lovers.

Alain’s own kiss comes next. Roland’s lips are chapped and thin like Cuthbert’s, and Alain can feel his heightened emotions - determination, bloodlust, dread - clearly through the intimate touch, even though the contact does not linger.

Alain does not see Roland’s lips meet Jamie’s. In the instant of their kiss, he sees a hoard of blue-faced men come scrambling up the rocky hill, shouting and wielding bows and spears. Is that a rifle? They are almost in range . . . almost . . .

“What say you to these odds?” Cuthbert’s voice echoes in his head. He is at the ready, a revolver in each hand. His eyes are coal and fire. He is smiling.

“They say that three can be a magic number. I like them very well.” Roland’s eyes are ice, but he is smiling, too. Smiling for Cuthbert.

Their attackers are in range. Seven guns fire. Six blue-faced men fall. So does Jamie. His blood, a chunk of his brain, and several fragments of his skull spatter onto Cuthbert’s face. Cuthbert bursts into a fit of helpless laughter and plummets to the ground next to the corpse of his dear friend. A fleet of arrows flies hissing over their heads. 

Cuthbert kisses Jamie in his hair behind his ear and fires again from behind the shield of his lifeless body. “And how do you like them now?”

Alain comes back to the present with a gasp. His three companions stare at him with questions in their eyes. He shakes his head. It will not help his friends to know that Jamie will die in the first assault, or that, by then, Alain will already be gone. When darkness falls, he volunteers for the first watch.

2

The time for Cuthbert’s watch comes and goes, but Alain is disinclined to sleep. He Knows he will not need his strength much longer. Silently, he sits on top of Jericho Hill looking back the way they came. He ignores the campfires of the enemy and instead watches the invisible Eastern horizon for the first signs of daylight, only a few hours away. When the sun rises, the first thing he will see is the jagged boulder behind which Cuthbert, one-eyed, sticky with his own blood, will laugh at death as he and Roland make their final stand. Not this coming day, Alain is sure, but almost certainly tomorrow.

A warm hand tucks into the collar of Alain’s shirt, and he jumps. Cuthbert is standing there, his expression indiscernible in darkness. His calloused fingers massage the bunched up tendon between Alain’s shoulder and his neck.

Alain reaches back, not with his hand but with his mind, and Cuthbert, as he usually does, lets him slip easily inside his head.

“You did not wake me,” Cuthbert reprimands inside his mind.

“I knew I would not sleep,” Alain replies.

Cuthbert sits beside him. His hand slides around the back of Alain’s neck and down his arm to his bare hand. “Come on,” he urges silently, “No one is coming.”

“I Know,” Alain assures him. He steps fully into Cuthbert’s mind.

This act has been a rare indulgence in the years since Gilead crumbled. They have been endlessly on the road, often beset by enemies, reluctant to excuse themselves so completely from the real world and leave their ka-tet vulnerable. Now, however, Alain Knows many specifics of their doom, and Cuthbert does not need the touch to realize they are fucked. They chose this place because it gives them higher ground, but they are only four, and the enemy outnumbers and outpaces them. There is no convenient box canyon or rift in reality to trap an army in this time, and nobody is coming to their aid. The foe will not reach them for one more night; if they are to have one private moment, this is it.

They are sitting on East Tower Lawn. Cuthbert has not stood before a mirror in a long time - maybe years - and in his mind he manifests as a surprising mishmash of how he is and how he was. He wears his real clothes - the same clothes he has worn each day for ages - but they are cleaner and less torn than in reality. His eyes are right - beneath their still vivacious sparkle lies the hard iron of a gunslinger, who has aged beyond his years - but they are set in a slightly too youthful, too clean face. He plainly knows how thin he is, however. Even in his mind’s eye, gauntness enhances the sharpness of his naturally angular body, and his fine cheekbones threaten to claw their way through his skin. Were they in Alain’s mind, Cuthbert might look more his correct age, but healthier. For the first time, Alain wonders how Cuthbert pictures him when they are here.

“Is this still your thinking place?” he asks.

Cuthbert smiles sadly. “I am not so morose as that. This is for us, tonight.”

Alain is touched and says so.

Cuthbert pokes him in the forehead. “Yes, I know.” He smiles again and looks out over the Bergher forest. Before they fled, the forest first became a den of thieves and then filled with slow mutants, who huddled in the darkened shadows and drove even the thieves away. A half hearted attempt had been made to burn them out, but the woods had been too thick-skinned to burn easily, and the project was soon abandoned. In his heart, Alain is glad. The forest goes on and on, even as the world around it changes.

“I want you,” Alain says.

Cuthbert looks at him sharply. They have had many trysts in the intervening years since Gilead’s doom, but all at Bert’s initiation. Alain has taken the promise that he made the night he first sucked Cuthbert’s cock to heart, and every time his friend steals a kiss in the dark or presses against him in the night or drops to his knees behind a tree in a rare moment when they are alone Alain is certain that the gods are real and that they smile upon him. Their lovemaking has typically been quick and silent, palms down each other’s pants as they breathe into each other’s mouths, toe curling sucks traded in such a hurry that the man who comes first has scarcely softened ere his mouth is on his partner’s cock. On exactly four occasions, Cuthbert has teased his finger at Alain’s hole, and Alain has begged him for a fuck and gotten what he asked for.

Cuthbert’s surprised expression fades quickly. “I thought you’d never ask,” he smirks. 

Alain makes a conscious decision not to read much into this except Cuthbert’s consent. “I want you on the boulder. The one that’s halfway down the hill. I want you to fuck me up against it.”

“Fucking Jesus and His fucking cross, Alain.” Cuthbert’s eyes are wide and extra dark. He licks his lips.

“Is that a ‘yes?’”

“Of course.” He grins.

They are ejected from his mind. 

Silently, they work their way down the steep slope of Jericho Hill. When they are in the hollow by the jagged rock, Cuthbert fists his hand in Alain’s coat and pulls him in for a kiss. The chill of midnight darkness burns away, and Alain strips off his jacket, then pushes Cuthbert’s off his shoulders, too. It is the same modified suede coat he’s worn for years, the one he first wore for Armitage Spencer and his child bride and then reclaimed and altered to his fancy. It was closely tailored then, and Cuthbert has aged several years, but the coat fits more loosely than it did in spite of his now more adult physique. The years have not been kind. They attack their waistcoats next and lay their guns aside, well within easy reach. Before long, they stand panting with their shirts untucked, their cocks straining against the worn out denim of their jeans.

“Tell me what you’re picturing,” Cuthbert whispers.

“Up against the rock, like this.” Alain leans back against it, spreads his legs.

“Not this?” Cuthbert braces his hands on either side of Alain’s head and sticks out his ass, as if some other man behind him were waiting to claim it. He leans in and kisses Alain, pushing his tongue into his mouth.

“No, up against it.”

Cuthbert stands back and cocks his head at him. Since that first time in Golden House, Alain has been careful never to employ the touch when they have sex (unless one of them is jerking off to tease the absent other), so he is not touching Cuthbert now. Nonetheless, he can still feel his nimble mind scampering all around the big, black rock, calculating how Alain’s fantasy might work. At last he shakes his head.

“You’ve got it backwards, then.” He tugs Alain off the flat surface of the sharply slanted rock and leans back against it himself. “You’re stronger, and I’m much more flexible. Fuck me instead.” 

Alain nearly falls over backwards.

“What, don’t you want to?” Cuthbert’s voice is teasing, but it has an edge to it Alain cannot interpret. His stumble has taken him too far away to clearly read Cuthbert’s face on this nearly moonless night, so he steadies himself and edges closer. By the time Cuthbert’s expression is apparent, he is smiling lasciviously. He strips off his shirt and unfastens his trousers, pushing them down past his hips. “Is this not what you want?”

Alain leans over him as Bert had done when their positions were reversed. He can feel the heat coming off his suddenly naked flesh. 

“And what do you want, Cuthbert?” Alain whispers in his ear, letting his hot, moist lips tickle the lobe.

Cuthbert moans very softly. Alain sucks on his earlobe and kisses slowly, wetly down his neck. 

“I want to make your fantasy come true. It matters not to me which role I take. I want to make you happy.”

“Does that get you off?”

“You know it does.” This whisper is more harsh and less seductive. “Now, help me with my boots.”

Alain pulls back so he can see his face. Cuthbert has both eyebrows raised in expectation. He meets his lover’s eyes and raises them a little more. His lips quirk crookedly. Alain drops to his knees. He tugs off one of Cuthbert’s boots, helps him pull his long leg out of his jeans, puts the boot on again, then does the other side.

“This is a rare treat,” he says when he rises again, pulling his own shirt over his head. He has seen Cuthbert without his clothes often enough, but he cannot remember the last time they were both so fully naked during sex. There is not enough moonlight to make the translucent lines of Cuthbert’s many scars shimmer, but Alain finds one from memory and rubs his thumb along it.

“This is a rare occasion.” For a moment, Cuthbert’s face is grim. Then his smile returns. “Do you have something? It’s alright if you don’t.”

“I snatched my grease tin from my purse before we headed down the hill.”

The smile spreads into a grin. “Excellent. You can roast me, seasoned, on your stick.” 

Alain covers his flushed face until he hears Cuthbert speak again, his amusement still apparent in his voice.

“I’ll turn around for this part, shall I?” 

When Alain looks again, his view is of Cuthbert’s narrow, sinewy back and well toned ass. Bonier than ever before, Cuthbert’s back is briefly awash with travelling shadows as his rangy muscles ripple along the furrows of his ribcage and around his prominent spine and knife-like shoulder blades. He is bracing himself on the rock, spreading his legs a little bit past shoulder width, leaning down far enough to give Alain a good view of his entrance. His soft sack dangles tantalizingly between his legs, but his hard cock juts out too upward and too forward for Alain to see it.

Alain scrambles out of his own trousers until he, too, is wearing only boots to protect his perpetually sore feet from the sharp scree on the hillside. He fishes his tin of congealed cooking fat from his pile of clothes. “I am going to touch you now,” he warns.

“I was beginning to wonder.” Cuthbert leans down a little further and smiles back at him from in between his legs. He is indeed more flexible by far. 

With Cuthbert watching, Alain touches the inside of his friend’s thigh, then runs his fingers up to cup those tempting balls. Cuthbert gasps and raises his head, burying his face in his own bicep. Encouraged, Alain strokes teasingly along his hidden cock, feeling it jump with pleasure, seeking release in Alain’s unformed fist. He trails his finger back, gently, across his scrotum, almost to his anus, then leaves off.

“This night is not as young as once she was, Alain.”

“I never thought I’d hear you beg for this.” Alain coats his finger in the grease.

Several barbed and less than witty comebacks crowd the forefront of Cuthbert’s mind so full that Alain can’t help but feel them, but none reach his friend’s lips. “Do not imagine that I do not want you,” Cuthbert says instead.

This time, it is Alain who gasps. His mind and body are on fire. Could his arousal indeed warm Cuthbert from the inside out? Gently, he touches his tacky-slick finger to Cuthbert’s entrance, soothes the fluttering muscle there, and pushes carefully inside into a heat to match his own desire.

As far as Alain knows, Cuthbert has not let anyone inside him since the missions ended in the last months of their eighteenth year. Although it’s possible that he has been with Roland thus, it is at least as likely that he accepts Alain’s finger so easily because of his keen bodily control. Like Roland, Jamie, and Alain himself, Cuthbert has honed his muscles to respond instantly to his mental command, and he is intimately familiar with this act, however long ago his last experience might have been. Soon, Alain is able to add a second finger, then a third. When he thinks the hole is loose and greased enough, he carefully withdraws, and Cuthbert turns around.

He leans back against the boulder, rubbing his shoulders up against it. “Hmm,” he murmurs, “Perhaps not.” He hunkers and retrieves his supple, battered leather coat and puts it on to guard against potential lacerations from the roughness of the stone. Then he leans back against the rock again, letting the jacket fall open to reveal his naked body. “Am I still bare enough?”

“Of course.”

“Well then,” he grins, “Let’s give this thing a try.” He rests his weight against the tall rock’s steep incline and raises his right leg, using his hand to pull his bent knee up against his chest, then out a little to the side. He bends his other knee and slides down a few inches until his hole is at just the right height for Alain’s cock.

Alain’s head thrums and roars with such arousal that he can barely move to take advantage of the offer. It seems to take an hour for him to manage the three faltering steps he needs to feel the heat of Cuthbert’s body once again. Clumsily, he leans over him, and Cuthbert lets his raised leg rest on Alain’s muscular arm. Then his friend’s hand is on his greasy cock, guiding him up and in.

At first, the angle is difficult, and then it isn’t anymore. He is inside, and Cuthbert’s two hands are stroking in opposite directions on his back - his left gliding down to clutch his ass and pull him deeper still, his right tugging none too gently at his neck, demanding that they kiss. Alain is happy to oblige. Then he begins to move. With extreme care, he thrusts ever so gently in and out, determined not to hurt his friend - his sometimes lover. With Cuthbert’s left knee bent, they are low enough against the surface of the rock that Alain has leverage to thrust up and hopefully massage the bump of pleasure deep inside.

“Is this alright?” he asks, “Do you think you will be able to come?”

“I reckon so,” Cuthbert breathes against his ear, “And, on the off-chance that I don’t, I’ve faith you’ll think of something once you’ve finished.”

“Oh yes,” Alain whispers back. He pictures himself on his knees, the jagged little rocks that have collected in the hollow denting his calloused skin, his mouth on Cuthbert’s luscious cock. He thrusts harder and faster than he means to for a moment before regaining control.

Cuthbert inhales sharply and takes the shell of Alain’s ear gently between his teeth. When he releases it, he lets his tongue curl inside, then whispers, “Fuck me like you mean it.”

“I am,” Alain insists, “I mean for it to be like this. I love you. I want to make love.”

The hand on Alain’s neck slides down onto his chest and gives a gentle shove. Alain’s heart sinks. Without pulling out (he’ll stay inside this paradise as long as he’s allowed), he leans his torso back to look at Cuthbert’s face, terrified that, for all the talk of love they’ve shared over the years, he’s gone a step too far this time.

But Cuthbert is smiling sweetly. His hand shifts from the center of Alain’s sternum to his heart. “And so do I, of course. But you may show me care without being so careful.” One eyebrow twitches, and his smile loses its innocence; although, its earnestness remains.

“I . . .” Alain stammers, “Do not let me cause you harm.”

“Love me like you mean it.”

After that, the next few moments are a blur. In his passion, Alain’s thrusts are heated, and Cuthbert responds with stifled moans and searing kisses and soft bites. Before they finish, Cuthbert crams the fingers of one hand into a chink above his head, kicks his left leg off the ground, and wraps it around Alain’s waist, digging the wooden heel of his boot into Alain’s bare ass. 

“Gods, Cuthbert,” Alain moans as softly as he can. He clutches at the leg and, after a few attempts, is able to bring it up over his other arm.

With his arms braced between Alain’s shoulder and his handhold on the rock, Cuthbert is bare and open for Alain, unable even to caress his own neglected cock. Alain slams into his lover one last time and comes hard enough that the night stars appear all over Cuthbert’s face. Then, he pulls out rapidly and slides down to his knees like he’d imagined, still bracing Cuthbert’s long legs over his strong arms. With Cuthbert almost riding on his shoulders, he swallows his cock and, in an instant, feels him pulse thick come into his throat. Slowly, he lowers both of them into the hollow, and they kiss, leaning back in the same place where Cuthbert and Roland are about to make their final stand. Just like the first time years ago, they kiss and kiss and kiss.

3

After breakfast, Roland asks Alain to go on a reconnaissance mission. The army has almost filled the valley now; if Alain could get a little closer he might be able to touch them. Roland is not willing to risk Cuthbert’s strength to amplify Alain’s touch from the camp; they have too little time. The request is reasonable and makes good sense, but it is ominous. Alain will be alone; it is likely he will never see his friends again. Smiling to cover up his dread, he hears himself agreeing to the mission. As he leaves, he squeezes Cuthbert’s fingers extra tight and slips inside his mind. He will be with him at the end, that way, and he’ll be able to report.

Jericho Hill is dry and stony, windswept. It has boulders in abundance, but only sparse and scrubby trees, short, thick, craggy, and ancient. Beside it, at the bottom of the North side of the hill, there runs a stream, which trickles through a marshy narrows thick with cottonwoods and willows before meandering through the grassy valley to the East. Alain makes for this thicket; it is the closet he can get to the approaching army and remain unseen. The slow curve of the hillside now obstructs his friends from view, but Alain can still feel Cuthbert. There is a slight twinge each time Cuthbert moves that Alain Knows is his fault. 

His silent apology is answered with a tease: “Did you not tell me you get off on feeling where I hurt?”

Alain blushes, but there is no one there to see. “I said I didn’t anymore.”

“You said.” A laugh. “Now I do, too.” Everything they say to each other in their heads is private, but this feels even more conspiratorial than usual. He can feel Cuthbert stretch his stiff, sore muscles and Knows that he is doing it in front of Roland and Jamie, who have no idea what he might be saying to Alain.

Alain stifles a chuckle and does his best to take his mind from his suddenly hard cock. He passes the trunk of the first great willow tree.

Everything changes.

Excruciating pain explodes behind his eyes, and, in his head, he hears Cuthbert cry out in surprise and sympathetic pain. Then that is ripped away. The searing pain recedes into a dull throb that pulses sharply back and forth between his eyes and sinuses and the center of his skull. 

He notices that he is sitting on the ground. 

He had never realized the trees were singing - not until he could not hear them anymore. 

He understands that Cuthbert, Roland, and Jamie will think that he is dead; Cuthbert felt his pain, followed only and forever by silence. 

He recognizes the beginning of the end.

Only then does he notice the hand on his shoulder.

Alain looks up into a face he thinks he might have seen before. The man’s face is painted blue, but he is not one of this region’s native people; he is too tall, and his nose is too sharp. He must have come with Farson’s armies all the way from In-World.

“Well met!” the blue man cries, “Well met, Alain Johns.”

“We have met before,” Alain guesses. He wishes he could Know. Even navigating his own memory is difficult now. He builds a rickety wall as best he can around his thoughts and waits for a reply.

“Poor boy - it is a heady feeling. I’ll give you one more taste.”

All of a sudden, the touch comes flooding back. Alain tries desperately to reach out to Cuthbert, but it is like it was when they first started practicing: he can only feel the person he is physically touching. He Knows immediately who this man is. Then it is gone again, replaced by pain - no less this time than the first. Is this the same helpless violation Cuthbert felt when Bracken Corbett forced himself inside him? Disgusted and in agony, Alain shoves the blue man’s hand off of his shoulder and clutches his head in his hands. He is gasping like a drowning man, he realizes. He struggles to breathe normally before he can pass out. There is no way he will be able to draw, aim, and fire a gun.

The blue man laughs - a booming cackle. They are too far away for Alain’s friends to hear.

“Marten-that-was,” Alain accuses when he has breath again to speak, “You are Farson’s wizard.”

The blue man - the wizard - smiles and imitates a courtly bow. “Let us rather say he is my general.”

Alain nods. “Have you done this just to hurt me for your pleasure?”

The wizard laughs again. “Oh, does it hurt?” He reaches for Alain’s shoulder again, and Alain crabwalks clumsily away from him and tumbles backwards into the shallow stream. More laughter. “Now, now, that isn’t why I’m here.”

“Just gravy, then? Fuck you.”

The wizard smiles. He extends a hand to help Alain out of the creek. “Come sit where it is dry. We will talk terms.”

Alain bares his teeth in a dark grin as he prepares himself for pain. He takes the hand, but pain is not forthcoming. Neither is the touch. He still feels empty. They sit and parley on the hard ground amongst the willow roots.

“Good,” the wizard oozes, “I have come to offer you a choice. I could have stripped you down and dragged you back to Farson’s camp and had you carried as a standard on a skewer as is the custom of this place, but you and I are civilized men, and you are much too valuable to waste on such a mindless spectacle.”

“I’m honored.” Alain’s words are dry as bleached bone dust.

“You should be,” the wizard answers, “I could make you an extremely powerful man. You will have what you had and more if you join me as my apprentice. And I’ll give you something else you want as well.”

“And what is that?”

The wizard smiles again, widely. “I have been to times and places you will never dream of, even if you join me, but everywhere I go the people say one thing: Allgood things must end, you know? But I could make him live again. I wish I could collect him for you now, but sadly . . .”

“There are fixed points,” Alain interrupts.

“That’s it, my boy! Fixed points. Young Deschain and young Allgood must make their final stand. But we can find him afterwards and put him back together. Between the two of us we will not even break a sweat. Chances are he won’t be altogether sane, but that will hardly matter. We’ll make certain that his body is intact.”

“He’ll lose an eye,” Alain reminds the wizard.

“Will he?” The wizard chuckles and rubs his hands together, pleased. “His vanity will suffer so, poor pretty little thing. I nearly changed my face and journeyed back to Gilead to play conspirator just so that I could get a taste of that, but I refrained. I did not tell Farson, either, or any of his friends. See how I have helped you out already!? How many battles did you win because I kept that secret? Steven Deschain whoring out the son of his right hand to buy his dying city just a few more months! I planted that idea in his head, you know? When I was Marten, he complained to me of how his son, Roland, spent overmuch time with Robert Allgood’s ever-laughing boy, and I suggested he might like him so because he was so pretty. Steven agreed that there was nothing for him but his looks, and I suggested that, once they had aged a year or two, his son might learn that mouth was good for other things than laughing. Is it not glorious how he drove me from his city after I cuckolded him and then destroyed his son’s friend’s innocence on my advice?”

“I never cared for Steven Deschain,” Alain replies, disgusted, “Did you intend for that act to become the man’s undoing?”

“I intended him to be undone and planted many traps to make it happen, but that was the sweetest of all. ‘Tis a pity it was not your pretty Cuthbert who dealt him the final blow, but, as you say, there are fixed points. Cuthbert Allgood must remain Roland’s acolyte and make his final stand with him tomorrow.” He paused, then added, “Now, don’t fret. I will continue to refrain. He will be yours, and I can put his eye back, right as rain. I want the best for my good friends.”

“Like Steven Deschain?”

The wizard laughs. 

“I do not wish to be your friend.”

“A wise choice. That will clear the air between us. Friends and lovers lie endlessly, caught in the web of regard. That, you understand better than most.”

Alain grimaces at the truth behind his words. “This is you, honest, then?”

“Of course.” He smiles widely. His sharp teeth stand out from his blue-painted face. They are shiny with his spit.

Alain does his best to smile back. “Tell me honestly, then. What happens if I do not join you? Am I the standard on the skewer?”

“Goodness, no!” the wizard laughs again, “Did I not say that we were civilized? If you agree to become my apprentice, I will give you back your touch, and you shall have your Cuthbert. If you do not, you may go back from whence you came.”

“Without my touch.”

“You see how clear communication is? I foresee a long and fruitful relationship.”

“It is a tempting offer,” Alain agrees, “Now, shut up and let me think.”

The throbbing in his head has generally subsided, and Alain seems to be able to think clearly. His capacity for reasoning remains, at least, but he is alarmed by how much he must have leaned upon the touch. Even his own voice sounds strange. 

A return to the camp on Jericho Hill is a death sentence. Cuthbert will imagine that he felt him die, and they will guess that a new source of danger lurks down in the direction of the stream. How right they are! The sky is darkening fast - faster than it ought to. That is the wizard’s treachery at work. If he approaches, his friends will not see his face and features; his voice will not sound normal; they will not feel his expected touch. They will shoot him as an enemy before he can get close enough for them to realize he is not.

But joining with Marten-that-was is treason. Self preservation, too, however. He might live to fight another day, and so might Cuthbert. Alain imagines a resurrected Cuthbert, mind addled by the experience of death. He might be wild, at first, but Alain will have power enough to tame him. He will be able to show him happy memories of them together. It will be easy to convince him they are lovers - lovers without all the complications that have dogged and warped that aspect of their intimacy. They will have a new first time, with Cuthbert glad and willing, happy to reward his savior - his old friend. He pictures returning home to a white tent and finding Cuthbert waiting, smiling, grateful, eager to please. Alain wonders whether he could live like that. If his conscience itches him, he can tell himself that he is playing the long game, waiting for his chance to turn the tables on the wizard. He can coax Cuthbert’s inner fire back into a living flame, and the two of them can once again fight side by side when opportunity arises.

And yet - Cuthbert would never forgive him, even if his mind survives intact. It is Roland he would do anything for, not Alain. Alain’s survival, his idea of a long game - this is no excuse. What evils would he willingly commit along the way just to come home to Cuthbert’s bed? How easily might he convince himself that any new intimacy between them was not rape? He remembers how he had hated Cuthbert’s slack face and unnatural cooperation when he had hypnotized him at thirteen. How many violations his dear friend has suffered since! There is no choice, not really.

“I will not take your offer,” Alain decides out loud, “I cannot, in good conscience, join my enemy.”

“More’s the pity,” moans the wizard, “I could rid you of it like I rid you of your touch. It is at least as burdensome.”

“I reckon that you nearly did,” Alain admits.

Unsteadily, he rises to his feet and begins the long trek back towards the hilltop camp. The sky is purple now, and darkness will fall long before he makes it to the top. His steps are slow, uneven. The touch had been a part of everything he did; now, even his balance is compromised. He slips upon the stony scree and scrapes his palms against the jagged rocks. He will shed more blood before the day is through.

The wizard calls after him: “Do you not understand how weak they are? They are beneath you. Look how you stumble! See how you had a mind while they have merely bodies!”

Alain chuckles and struggles to his feet. He turns to face the wizard, careful not to fall again. “And yet, you offer me a lover with a body and no mind.”

The wizard scoffs. “There’s nothing for him but his looks. The minds of mere mortals like him cannot withstand the knowledge of true death.”

“Maybe. Underestimating Cuthbert Allgood did not end well for Steven Deschain. Or Robert Allgood, either. It would not end well for me. Or you.”

“Fool! Do you fear him, gunslinger?” The wizard spits the title as he would an errant fly that landed on his tongue.

Slowly, carefully, Alain turns his back on his enemy and continues shakily, half crawling up the hill. “I love him,” he says to himself. He does not care whether the wizard hears. “I will not betray his trust.”

Gradually, blackness engulfs Jericho Hill. Like an injured spider, Alain clumsily limp-crawls up the slope. As the ground rounds out near the top, he stands, still stumbling irregularly over the stony ground. The first gunshot pierces his lung before he even comprehends how close he is to camp.

They realize their mistake before he dies, but, by the time Cuthbert takes him in his arms, he can no longer speak. When he tries, no sound comes out, and the salt of Cuthbert’s tears stings Alain’s tongue. He tries to smile reassuringly. He wants to offer comfort. He wishes he could touch his mind, but he can barely feel his body, even as Cuthbert cradles him against his chest. It is a relief to breathe his last breath into the living sweat and tears on Cuthbert’s neck. His warm, familiar scent can almost overpower the sharp smell of his own blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Walter's line, "Friends and lovers lie endlessly, caught in the web of regard," is a quote from his parley with Roland in _The Gunslinger_ , which I reread at some point during the approximately six months that I took to write this story. My basic outline remained the same throughout, but this line influenced some of the later details of the plot, so I chose to have him repeat it here. 
> 
> Similarity to my [story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12318783/chapters/28007364)/[series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/871521%20rel=) "Friends and Lovers" is coincidental but perhaps appropriate.
> 
> Only the epilogue left now!


	11. Epilogue

Alain wakes very slowly. It is not the groggy slowness he has experienced on more than one occasion due to exhaustion, dehydration, or malnourishment. Instead, it is a foreign, leisurely slowness. Perhaps he once experienced such a sensation as a small child - there must have been times when even the boys born to the gun felt safe and healthy, not on guard - but he cannot remember.

Alain opens his eyes and sees the sky: bright blue and full of warming light although he sees no sun. The bed he lies on is a bed of grass so soft it might be down. He stretches out his muscles, which are not stiff or sore, and rises to his feet. All around him there are trees, old and strong, like the trees of the Bergher forest, which refused to burn. Where they are exposed to light, their canopies shimmer a vivid green, and the darkness of the thick forest beyond does not seem threatening. Several friendly paths extend into the wilderness, beckoning Alain to join them for a peaceful stroll or leisurely exploration. 

He has reached the Clearing at the End of the Path.

Alain cannot be certain whether his own touch has returned or whether the sense of Knowing that he feels imbues the place itself. It is no matter; his body and his mind feel whole again, and each inviting path assures him it will lead to nothing short of blissful rest. Alain approaches one such exit, spreads his arms wide, and leans against the trees on either side. He feels the thrum of their spirits although, like Alain himself, they are not alive in the sense Alain had previously understood. He inhales their fragrant scent.

Alain lets go of the trees. He stands at the center of the path. Readying himself for his first step into the welcoming unknown, he runs his hands through his hair at the temples, combing his fingers through his soft, blonde curls. He can’t remember when his hair has felt so clean. Curious, he runs his fingertips along his bearded cheeks and full, unchapped lips. His beard is neatly trimmed, close to the skin, just long enough to keep from being prickly. Cuthbert had liked it like that when they were teenagers kissing on East Tower Lawn and Alain could grow a beard and Cuthbert couldn’t. It was soft, Cuthbert had promised, not itchy at all. It showed off the contours of his chin, he’d said, and emphasized his cheekbones. When they left Gilead for the open road he had at first let it grow unruly, swallowing the shape of his face, while Cuthbert had taken pains to stay clean shaven. His beard was a scraggly piece of shit, he had proclaimed. “If I’m to die out here I shall die pretty.” Alain had trimmed his beard more often after that, but it had been years since it was perfect. Cuthbert will not die pretty, Alain Knows. He will die having lived a few minutes at least with a gory, gaping hole in his face. Alain is used to that wound, though - it has haunted his dreams all his life, haunted them to the point of familiarity. His love and desire for Cuthbert will not be any less if he arrives wearing that mutilated face.

Smiling, he turns to face the center of the Clearing once again. He strokes his broad chest, almost surprised to find that he is clothed in the same fashion to which he is accustomed. Like his hair and skin, his clothes are clean and soft. Roland’s Turtle brooch is pinned on his jacket lapel. In his pocket he finds the lock of Cuthbert’s hair he lost at least two years ago while they were fording a river that was deeper than they had originally thought. He draws it out and looks at it: five inches of shiny, braided chestnut. What an uncharacteristically romantic gesture it had been when Cuthbert saved it for him!

Alain sits, leaning back against the humming tree. It is possible that Cuthbert will not die at Jericho Hill. The sight of his best friend’s life’s blood might jar Roland into a sentimental mood, and he might pull the Horn of Eld from Cuthbert’s lips and flee with him into the wilderland beyond the battlefield. It is even possible Roland might fall - in this battle or another - and Cuthbert, in a fit of dubious luck, will live, one-eyed, to carry on his quest. But Cuthbert will not live forever. 

Alain squints at the sky and then remembers that there is no sun. This is no earthly place. He will greet Jamie when he comes, stretching awake with Cuthbert’s surprised laugh still ringing in his ears. He will greet Roland, too, if he should pass this way. He will explain to each ka-mate in turn the bizarre misadventure that led to his inevitable death, and they will all forgive each other. He will embrace his friends and wish them well if they elect to take the peaceful path into the forest before Cuthbert arrives. Here, time is unending. It matters not whether the forest paths are gateways to sweet oblivion or to a rosy afterlife. Alain is in no hurry; he will wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Complete! Thank you for reading!


End file.
